


all the shards of yesterday

by withinwithout



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, and lots of it all the time, basically just a clusterfuck of emotion for 100k, some references to stress/anxiety in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 107,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinwithout/pseuds/withinwithout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> There’s too many feelings and none of them are said out loud, and it’s all too much and not enough and Zayn’s too scared to change things between them and too afraid to let them stay the same. He presses his face into Harry’s hair and thinks of after uni, when things can happen between them for real. Sometimes it’s the only comfort he has, the only thing that pulls him through.</i><br/> </p><p>  <i>‘Harry,’ he says against his neck, feeling himself wilting when Harry presses a kiss to Zayn’s hair, his arms drawn tight across Zayn’s shoulders. ‘Harry, I don’t think I can do this.’</i></p><p> </p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <b><br/>They’ve been half in love since the summer before Zayn went to university and every year since, but sometimes, it’s still not enough.</b>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>a One Day AU (kind of)</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. goodbye blue sky

**Author's Note:**

> This started out six months ago as a One Day AU but now barely resembles the book at all, not in content nor structure (and no bicycle incidents, I’m not a complete masochist). 
> 
> It is very long and very angsty and I’m very sorry for both. I wrote a lot of this pre the shit show that has been 2015 – ie all the break ups, the death of ot5, the announcement of the break, some tattoos, and so on – so just roll with it! Oh and all the chapter titles are Pink Floyd songs because those matching tattoos kill me and never get enough attention.
> 
> Please heed the warning about stress/anxiety – it’s a part of Zayn’s character (as mentioned in his reasons for leaving 1D) that I really wanted to explore, if only at surface level, and in this case, as a result of his time at school/university. It’s only majorly apparent in part one and not to what I think is a triggering degree, but everyone is different so please be careful!
> 
> Also please be aware that this fic was written with angst in mind, and that the two of them will intentionally and unintentionally fuck each other around emotionally. Not all of the behaviour exhibited in the fic is entirely conducive to a strong, healthy friendship, and I wrote it meaning to explore character and relationship dynamics that aren't always given complete attention in fic. I think you can make bad decisions and behave selfishly - can hurt the feelings of the person you love, either accidentally or knowingly - but still, beneath it all, be a good person. From my experience, relationships and people aren't that black and white. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  ****
> 
>   
> ****  
> All we need is a spark, a second chance, a lifeline  
>  Waiting up in the dark, holding up for a search light  
> No I don't know why seasons change  
> Or how we fell so far  
> Before our hearts go up in flames…
> 
> ~ James Bay  
> 
> 
>   
> 

  
****

**_don't look around_  
Tuesday, 1st January 2011 ******

 

 

_‘– One!’_

Cheering as fireworks erupt against the black cloak of the sky, red and orange and yellow, a bright burst of blue that washes everyone’s skin pale. The grass goes anaemic, momentarily looks like water before the blue dims and it’s back to the sad, flattened lawn, un-miraculous once more.

From his spot in the corner, Zayn leans forwards onto his toes, the grass squelching beneath his feet, not looking at the sky, not looking for someone to kiss.

He only realises what he’s searching for when he finds it, and he surprises himself when it’s Harry. It’s midnight, the bright, shimmering turn of the new year, and he’s looking for Harry.

And there he is, in the corner of the garden, Francesca Cook under his arm, their faces pressed together. It makes Zayn feel a bit sick, or maybe that’s just the cheap champagne they’ve been drinking all evening, and he lights a cigarette with numb fingers. There’s something that maybe feels a little like jealousy brewing stormily in his chest, blue like the fireworks, but that’s only because Harry’s got someone to kiss and he hasn’t. He could if he wanted to – Mel is over there by the rosebush, not kissing anyone either, trying not to stare at him. But he doesn’t want to and he doesn’t know why, so he presses the toe of his shoe into the mud and lets his face turn red under the glow of fireworks, as red as the anxious swell of his heart when Harry pulls away from Francesca, smiling his horrible lovely dirty smile, and tugs her into the house.

 _Are you meant to make a wish_ , Zayn tries to remember, _or is it just a resolution?._ Zayn wishes anyway, staring at the upstairs windows of the house as his cigarette burns out between his fingers, trying not to alarm at the fact that it has a lot to do with Harry and, still, he doesn’t know why. He has a lot else to wish for – getting into Cambridge, for starters, because he finds out in two weeks and he’s probably never been more nervous for anything in his whole life, and then there’s his A-Levels, his mum’s good health, the Man United match tomorrow. But still he wishes about Harry. _For_ Harry.

For his mouth, his mouth to be on Zayn, his hands, the feel of his breath on Zayn’s skin. He wishes for Harry to feel the same way he does – to feel that same breathless heave of his lungs, the ache in his fingertips, the weird, unshakable longing that makes his brain go all fuzzy – except he doesn’t know _what_ exactly this feeling even is. Maybe it’s not jealousy, after all. His hands tremble when he sees the bedroom light upstairs go on and his mouth goes dry, and he doesn’t understand that, either.

For someone who might possibly be a student at the best university in the world this coming September, there’s a lot Zayn doesn’t seem to understand. He stubs the cigarette out in the mud and looks up at the fireworks and closes his eyes, red spots behind his eyelids, crimson pinpricks piercing the fragile skin of his heart.

 

 

  
**_‘cause love is blind_  
Wednesday, 1st February 2012**

 

 

Zayn wakes to the hot brush of Harry’s breath on his neck.

He groans, squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and he feels Harry’s lips curve into a smile as drags them across Zayn’s skin, mouthing at the stretch between his neck and his shoulder, his tongue wet and teasing.

‘Good morning,’ Harry says. His voice is unbearably slow and raspy, and it does something to Zayn; stirs at his insides, makes popping candy of his blood.

‘Happy birthday,’ Zayn replies, cracking his eyes open. He throws a sleepy grin at Harry and studies him through his eyelashes, ignoring the pulverising rhythm of his heart and hoping to God Harry can’t see the pulse of it change the balance of his face.

Harry hasn’t tamed his hair to the side yet so it’s curling over his forehead, tangling with his eyelashes, and there’s a purple bruise the size of a grape nestled in the shadow under his jaw. He looks like nothing Zayn’s ever seen but also everything great in the universe, every glorious fucking sunset and every lake and mountain and huge fuck off waterfall, and Zayn wants to peel Harry’s mouth off his face and put it in a jar and declare it as the eighth wonder of the world.

‘Cheers,’ Harry says, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to Zayn’s mouth. He feels Harry’s leg brush against his, the warmth of his toes against Zayn’s ankle.

‘Eighteen.’ Zayn tries and fails to let out a low whistle, like in the movies, and Harry smiles like Zayn’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. ‘You’re an adult.’

‘Yaaay!’ Harry cheers sarcastically, but his voice is still rough from sleep and it cracks as he tapers off. He leans in again to nip at Zayn’s upper lip, and smiles when Zayn pulls him into his lap, running his hands over Harry’s bare thighs.

They kiss slowly, ignoring their morning breath and the grumble of the shower down the hall and the fact that Harry has to go to college in less than an hour. Harry trails his fingers through Zayn’s hair, scratches them lightly down Zayn’s neck, thumbs over Zayn’s collarbone.

‘Where’s my present?’ he whispers against Zayn’s lips, smirking, and Zayn pinches his thigh.

‘Your present is _me_ ,’ Zayn teases, grinning when Harry’s face scrunches as he pretends to be put out. ‘I came all the way here for you.’

That’s met with a scowl. ‘Well – not good enough. I don’t want it.’

‘You wanted it last night.’

If Harry flushes, Zayn doesn’t notice, too preoccupied by the way he shrugs and smiles slowly, eyes on Zayn’s mouth. Zayn presses his thumb over the bruise on Harry’s neck and pulls him closer, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Harry groans, the sound pulling from low in his throat, and Zayn could listen to that forever, on repeat, over and over and over in his head like an old cassette tape that needs attending to with a pencil.

They both start when they hear the boiler fall quiet as Anne finishes up in the shower. It yanks them back into reality for a moment, and Zayn swallows, wondering if the creak of Harry’s tiny bed last night carried through the walls. It wouldn’t be the first time, and suddenly he feels a flush of self-consciousness, pressing his face into Harry’s bicep.

Harry stills and lets him breathe for a moment, hand gentle in Zayn’s hair, before rolling off him, knowing Zayn will follow. And of course he does; Zayn’s hovering on top of Harry the moment there’s too much distance and cold air between them, drinking in the image of Harry’s hair swept out across the pillow, the stupid awful curve of his smile, his arms reaching for Zayn. His mouth is soft, wet, desperate against Zayn’s, hot with the excitement of the secrecy, of breaking the rules, of his mum just feet away in her bedroom. Zayn feels lightheaded, like he’s been lying down far too long and then stood up far too quickly, and he tries to concentrate on the feel of Harry’s mouth, of Harry’s hands in his hair, of the hard outline of Harry’s dick through his boxers. Harry shivers when Zayn pushes his hands up his chest, running his knuckles across the corrugated surface of his ribcage, thumbing over his nipple.

Realistically, Zayn knows this is a terrible idea – Harry’s got college to go to and friends to see on his birthday and things to do today – but he can’t seem to care enough to stop himself. He can never stop himself when Harry’s involved. If he had his way, he’d keep him holed up here all day, curl into Harry’s chest and wrap the duvet around them like a straightjacket.

But then Harry pulls back, smiling against Zayn’s mouth. ‘Fuck, I missed you,’ he mumbles, lips sliding across Zayn’s cheek to the curve of his jaw. ‘I hate it when you leave me.’

Zayn wants to say something about Harry being overdramatic – it’s literally only been a few weeks since Zayn was home for Christmas – but for some reason he can’t. His heart thrashes punishingly behind his ribcage, and he kisses Harry before Harry says anything else equally as deadly, pulse fucking _stinging_ when Harry lets out a muffled ‘Mmgh’ against his lips, clinging to his hair.

‘Shit, I’m so hard,’ Harry breathes hotly against Zayn’s cheek, laughing like he can’t believe it as he lifts his hips up to rub against Zayn’s thigh.

‘God,’ Zayn says, his head dropping to Harry’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. ‘You have college, H.’

‘Don’t care.’ He yanks Zayn’s head back and kisses him hard, his tongue unrelenting in Zayn’s mouth, teasing the resistance out of him. Zayn makes a noise he’ll be embarrassed about later, grinding down against Harry and feeling his blood flare when Harry gasps and shudders up to meet him. ‘Fuck, _yeah._ ’

‘Harry!’ Anne’s voice slices through the room, only slightly muffled by the thin wall between Harry’s bedroom and the hall, and Harry jerks like he’s been shot.

‘Yes, Mum?’ he croaks back. Zayn freezes, eyes wide, but before he can even think to move Harry shoves a hand down his underwear, biting impatiently at his neck. His hand is startlingly cold and on the wrong side of dry and Zayn jumps, whimpers, but then his forehead falls against Harry’s shoulder, eyes rolling back into his head.

‘’s that good?’ Harry whispers and Zayn nods fervently, clinging to him.

‘Harry…’ Anne’s disembodied voice chimes again, interrupting a moan Zayn tries to stifle against Harry’s collarbone. Harry’s hand only speeds up, squeezing hard enough that Zayn nearly cries out. ‘You have one minute to get in that shower or I’m coming in.’

‘Don’t come in!’ Harry says quickly, hand stilling now.

‘Fifty seconds!’

Harry growls under his breath and shoves Zayn off him, throwing off the covers and nearly toppling headfirst out of bed when his foot gets twisted in the sheet. He rubs his hands over his face and stands there, long body stretched out for Zayn to see, dick hard beneath his boxers, hips spilling over the tight edge of the fabric. He grabs his towel and winds it around his waist with a face like thunder, lips pressed tight in frustration.

‘Be right back,’ he grumbles, striding from the room and slamming the door behind him.

‘You couldn’t have given me _five_ more minutes,’ Zayn hears him say to his mum, all surly and petulant.

‘You should have woken up five minutes earlier, then!’ Harry doesn’t say anything, and Zayn can hear the smile in Anne’s voice when she says, only marginally lowering her voice, ‘Zayn will still be here later, you know.’

‘Stop, Mum!’ Harry whines, and then Zayn hears the bathroom door smack shut.

Zayn grins stupidly at the fluorescent stars stuck to the ceiling and allows himself – as sad and embarrassing he is – a sad and embarrassing moment to squirm about happily, legs tangling with the duvet and hands pressing over his eyes with that wild sense of disbelief he always gets around Harry, the secretive thrill of being wanted. After nearly nine months, he still can’t believe that it’s Harry, that Harry actually wants him. He half expects Harry to burst in through the door with a cabaret and a camera crew, streamers bursting behind him as he points at Zayn and laughs, ‘ _the joke’s on you!’._

He’s still lying like this, drowning in his own contentedness, when Harry emerges from the shower all damp and pink and fluffy, scrambling around the room to get ready for college. He’s humming away to a song Zayn doesn’t recognise, hands running through his wet hair as he tugs on his uniform and half-heartedly knots his tie, not doing up the top button of his shirt because he’s not a fucking loser. He’s generous with aftershave that he doesn’t entirely need, drenching himself in it, and then studies himself in the mirror carefully, peers close to examine the spots near his hairline which he covers hastily with his damp fringe.

‘Do I look okay?’ he asks Zayn doubtfully, turning towards him and screwing his face up, and Zayn’s heart surges proudly because insecurity is a side to Harry not many people get to see. But Zayn does, from the comfort of Harry’s bed, indecent parts of him still aching from last night.

‘You’re wearing your uniform,’ Zayn manages after gazing at him for just a beat too long. ‘You look the same as you always do.’

Harry bites his lip. ‘I know,’ he concedes, taking one last look at himself before moving away from the mirror. ‘I just wanted to look good on my birthday.’

‘You always look good,’ Zayn says lamely, and Harry stares at him, blinking, before grinning slowly, a smile that creeps across his face inch by inch, the dimple appearing stickily like a molten crater in lava.

‘You think?’ Harry asks, and then before Zayn can answer he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, cupping Zayn’s face in his hand and kissing him softly. His mouth tastes like mint, and Zayn feels himself falling forwards, fingers scrabbling desperately at Harry’s hip under his shirt.

‘Mum’s taking me to the drive-thru for breakfast, birthday treat.’ He smiles and presses another kiss to Zayn’s mouth. ‘Wanna come?’

‘Nah, you’re all right,’ Zayn says, smiling his reluctance. As much as he loves Anne, the pair of them dropping Harry off at college together and waving him through the gates like some Jeremy Kyle experiment gone wrong is probably more than he can handle.

‘See ya, then.’ Harry kisses him once more, his tongue breaching Zayn’s mouth teasingly before pulling away. He stands up, rearranges his hair again, locates his bag under his desk, and Zayn briefly imagines being adults with their own place, watching Harry get ready for work from the warmth of their big, shared double bed. He thinks of which side Harry would have, because that’s a thing, isn’t it, that couples have their own side of the bed. He imagines waking up curled around Harry, like they’ve been doing for months and months now, but without the solitary walk home afterwards, without the fierce concealment of any marks Harry left behind, upturned collars and scarves in summer and neglected offers to join his cousins at the swimming pool, without the white lies and the secret phone calls and the criminally overused ‘I’m just going for a sleepover’.

And even as young as he is, barely nineteen, all those thoughts of adulthood, of ZaynandHarryforever, is – um.

Not entirely unpleasant.

The word _love_ pops up in Zayn’s brain in big, orange bubble writing, and he has to actually shake his head to get it to fuck off.

Harry’s hand is on the doorframe, all ready to leave, when he hesitates. He looks at Zayn, face twisted with worry, and his mouth seems to swallow the words a few times before he says, ‘You’ll be here when I get back, yeah?’

Zayn smiles. ‘Of course.’

‘Good,’ Harry says, smiling too now.

‘Have fun at college.’

‘I’ll try. See you, Zayn.’

‘Bye, babe.’

And then he’s gone.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn is very careful.

Not necessarily with his keys and his phone and his wallet, but with important things. He revised six hours a day every day for his A-Levels, not so much learning but _burning_ the knowledge into his brain, almost daring himself to forget it. He holds onto banisters on the stairs and _never_ eats food off the floor and he blinks distrustfully at any stranger that so much as glances at him for more than a few seconds.

He wasn’t so careful eighteen months ago, when Harry moved to Bradford and started college in the year below Zayn and Louis. Zayn can still remember the first time he saw Harry, last December, loping up the corridor with his guitar hanging over his shoulder on his way to rehearsals. His tie was undone, his hair falling over his eyes, and even now Zayn can’t forget the way his gaze lingered on Harry’s mouth, the confusing lift of his heart when Harry smiled, said hello, sat down beside him. He didn’t want Harry to be very careful with him. He wanted Harry to _ruin_ him.

And then _Grease_ was over, Zayn’s meticulously painted set taken down, Harry’s orchestra disbanded, Louis’ Danny Zuko costume shoved under his bed for the rest of eternity. Next stop: the drunken sleepovers, the confusing envy, the nights spent texting till 4am and staring at each other across the pub and Zayn shamefully wanking himself off in the dark of his bedroom to the thought of Harry’s mouth, biting his lip so he didn’t accidentally gasp Harry’s name.

It didn’t make sense, because he and Harry were friends. Best friends. The two of them and Louis had become a trio that outlived _Grease’s_ final curtain, and all year Louis and Zayn had been sneaking Harry into the pub and buying him illicit drinks, sharing spliffs in Louis’ shed, spending whole evenings driving around in Louis’ car singing the Spice Girls’ greatest hits at the top of their lungs.

And it didn’t make sense that Zayn felt sick when Harry delivered the news he lost his virginity to Francesca Cook, or the tight burn at the pit of his stomach when he had to watch them get off at parties, pressed against the wall with Harry’s hands on her waist. It didn’t make sense that gradually, their sleepovers became unbearable, the air thick with everything Zayn didn’t understand and everything he couldn’t say aloud, making it impossible to sleep at all. It didn’t make sense that when he saw Harry disappear somewhere with Francesca, he wished with everything he had that it was him holding Harry’s hand instead.

Until they kissed, and suddenly everything made sense.

Isn’t it natural, though, to want to keep yourself safe, to hold yourself back from things that can ruin you? That’s why Zayn’s careful. Why the thought of him and Harry terrified him, and still does, sometimes. Why he doesn’t make friends easily. Why he prefers the company of his family. Why people think he’s mysterious or moody or whatever the fuck they say.

Harry never thought that, though. Harry, with his intense stare and his sharp, serious face saw right through him, and Zayn melted into Harry’s arm around his waist and blinked up at him like Harry had constellations painted to his eyelids and forgot to be careful.

And then Zayn got his A-Level results, and his place at Cambridge confirmed, and he had to be not-careful with that, too, spill out over that ledge and hope for the best. He stepped on the train and waved goodbye and watched the version of who they could have been slither away. It became dusty, insubstantial, an abandoned cobweb of a future that, for all its flimsiness, still likes to haunt with questions of _what if?_

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn isn’t aware that he’d fallen back asleep until he wakes again, his mouth dry and scratchy, Harry’s pillow pressing creases into his cheek. A mid-afternoon silence hangs heavily in the air, a daytime witching hour, and Zayn’s very aware of the clock ticking loudly in the corner, the only thing making a sound for miles, it feels like. Harry bought it the first time he ever visited his dad in Melbourne, long before he moved to Bradford. It’s red plastic, and the face of the clock is a koala. Zayn’s never been to Melbourne – he doesn’t even own a passport – but he doesn’t need to in order to know that this clock is a bit of tat that shouldn’t have lasted as long as it has.

The curtains are drawn but light from the street breaks through the thin barrier of the fabric and illuminates the room, bouncing off all the corners and twisting shadows of Harry’s football trophies and deodorant bottles and empty beer cans into monsters against the walls. Without Harry, the monsters seem bigger, scarier, as though they’re aware of an intruder in their midst, and Zayn tugs the duvet up to his chin and stares at them distrustfully.

This house holds so many memories for him, mostly of last summer, because those are the most vivid, the ones that make his pulse thicker. The first time they ever kissed, in the hammock in the garden, wine staining their lips, sunlight catching on their eyelashes. The weeks they spent kissing _everywhere_ , after that, on the sofa, in the kitchen, upstairs on Harry’s bed. Hours stuffed with such tentative, unsure touching, shaking fingers trailing over burning skin, watching with wide-eyed awe what they could do to each other, with their hands, with their mouths. It became everything, the way Harry’s eyes screwed up when he came, the concentrated crease between his eyebrows, the way he grabbed at Zayn and laughed against the corner of his mouth and stroked a soft hand through his hair. Both of them slick and sweaty in the stuffiness of the summer, clinging to each other and trying to forget about the miles and miles of distance that would settle between them, kick them apart and set up camp in the middle.

Zayn scrambles out of bed and pulls on yesterday’s roughly discarded clothes, not bothering with a shower or with brushing his teeth. He trips down the stairs and allows just a few minutes to play with Dusty, sneakily filling up her food bowl and making her promise not to tell. They don’t have any pets at home because of his sisters’ various allergies, but even so, Zayn just has a way with animals. He even wanted to be a vet until a couple of months ago, but apparently it’s even harder to get a place doing veterinary science than it is medicine and it scared Zayn too much, so he let that dream die pretty sharpish. He scratches behind Dusty’s ears, kissing her little pink nose gently, and then he’s out, back onto the streets of Bradford.

The walk between Harry’s house and his own is something he’s had memorised for months now. It takes nineteen minutes at a fast pace, and he usually gets a couple cigarettes in. Today he smokes four, unhurried, the hole at the toe of his Vans peeking out at him every time he looks down to ash the fag. Something has taken residence on his chest, an elephantine weight that isn’t stress, or homesickness, or loneliness, all the things that have been residing there since September. It’s not that feeling he gets around Harry, or relief about being home, or even a sensation of mounting pressure because he’s missing two tutorials and five lectures to be here.

Instead, it’s certainty, the weight of decision bearing heavily on him, because after six miserable months, today is the day he will quit university.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

He hears the hum of the television as soon as he crosses the threshold, and for one ridiculous minute he’s sure there’s a burglar in his house, a thief who’s decided to sit down and catch up on _Corrie_ before pinching Waliyha’s new laptop and his great-grandma’s jewellery. He freezes by the front door, hands closing into fists at his sides, but then he hears his mum’s voice call out a croaky ‘ _hello?_ ’ and he momentarily relaxes before stiffening again.

She’s meant to be at work. He’s meant to have the house to himself all afternoon, during which time he was going to draft a strong, emphatically worded speech explaining his decision to drop out of Cambridge that he’ll deliver to them tomorrow, before slipping back to Harry’s. Back to Harry’s bed, his scrawny arms and his stupid mouth, the safety of his crumpled sheets and fluorescent ceiling stars and steady, reliable heartbeat against Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn makes himself count the number of steps on the staircase, taking deep, steadying breaths, before he toes off his shoes and shuffles into the living room. ‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’

She’s lying across the sofa, pink fluffy dressing gown drawn tightly around her middle, yellow _Winnie the Pooh_ slippers propped up on the opposite armrest. At first her eyes widen, but then her expression shifts, lips pulling back into an enormous smile, so big it breaks Zayn’s heart.

‘Zayn!’ She attempts to push herself up but Zayn crosses to the sofa and gently presses her back into the sofa as he kisses her cheek. ‘Sweetheart, what are you doing here?’

‘Came back for Harry’s birthday,’ he says awkwardly. He eyes her dressing gown, the tissue clutched in her fist, and in turn she takes in his unwashed hair, yesterday’s clothes sitting crumpled and stale on him.

‘You’ve just arrived?’ she asks, a bit doubtfully.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn lies breezily. ‘You okay?’

She flaps a hand. ‘It’s the bronchitis,’ she says in that way she always does, casual, offhand. ‘Always springs up when it’s cold, you know.’

Zayn nods stiffly and ignores the horrible churning in his stomach. ‘Have you eaten, Mum?’

‘No, but you’re all right, tell me about Cambridge –’

‘I will in a bit. You need to eat.’ He kisses her again and heads to the kitchen, rooting around for something that’s not out of date peanut butter for the pair of them to eat. There’s not much – some lone vegetables loitering in the bottom drawer of the fridge and a half-empty packet of noodles at the very back of one of the cupboards – but he makes a start chopping up the vegetables, trying his best to relax. He’s home, he has to remind himself. He’s finally home, in the kitchen he and Louis accidentally almost set on fire when they were making brownies in Year Five, the site of all family meals (and arguments), the spot his Mum announced she was having Safaa, all those years ago. The place he belongs and the place he understands and the place he needs to be, not miles and miles away in Cambridge. Alone.

He inexpertly throws everything into a pan once he gets bored of chopping and declares himself done, because despite a multitude of evenings spent cooking for himself at Cambridge when he didn’t feel like going to dinner, he still hasn’t advanced much beyond pasta and tomato sauce.

He sneaks outside for a cigarette while his mum’s preoccupied with _Corrie_ , shielding himself from the drizzle that’s just broken past sheets of grey cloud with his arm held above his head. After a couple of miserable minutes that proves useless and he ends up in the shed, surrounded by boxes of his stuff. It’s more than a little depressing, his possessions piled up amongst the cobwebs like he’s moving out for good, or he’s died, but Wali’s moved into his old room now so she doesn’t have to share with Safaa and there’s no space for it anymore. Zayn lets the cigarette dangle precariously out of the corner of his mouth and lifts the lips of a box scribbled with ‘ _Zayn school_ ’, a small army of folders staring back at him. Hundreds of handwritten revision notes, pages he poured over for hours last summer, pressing all of his sanity into the paper. Every scrawl laced with more hope and fear than Zayn thinks he’d be capable of now.

It’s one of the only secrets that he won’t share with Harry or Louis, but really, Zayn only applied to study Archaeology and Anthropology because there’s barely any possibility of failure. Zayn would reluctantly admit that he’s good at other stuff – drawing, boxing, even singing although he’s too self-conscious to do so in front of people – but there’s no avoiding the fact that someone will always be inescapably better than you. Zayn eliminated as many chances of disappointment as he could, and settled for a boring, comfortable degree, which, thus far, he only mildly hates. He stares at his folders.

All of that, just for Cambridge.

It makes him so sad he finishes the rest of his cigarette in the rain.

‘Why are you so wet?’ his mum asks when he presents her with her noodles and collapses on the other end of the sofa, resettling her feet in his lap.

‘Just wanted some fresh air,’ Zayn lies shiftily. His mum tuts at him and Zayn shovels food in his mouth, not looking to see whether she knows he’s fibbing.

‘Tell me about Cambridge, then,’ she says, wriggling her feet in his lap, and Zayn swallows a mouthful of noodles thickly, like they’re made of tar. ‘How is it, being back?’

‘Great,’ Zayn says as best he can, and he’s not sure why he’s still lying but he supposes it’s instinct, now, after six months of it. ‘You know. The same.’

‘Was it nice seeing your friends again, after Christmas?’

Zayn blinks at the wall. _I don’t really have any friends,_ he wishes he could say. He has Toby, a boy in his seminar who he texts about what reading they have to do. He has Bella, who lives opposite him and cuts her own fringe and sometimes makes him tea and talks to him about Franz Kafka. They’re not _friends_ , though. Both of them went to private school and live in big country houses and go on holiday to private resorts in the Caribbean. Toby’s dad went to Cambridge, too. ‘Yeah, it was.’

‘That’s good.’ His mum chews slowly on a mouthful of noodles, and Zayn feels like she knows he’s lying, a heat creeping up his neck. That primal urge to protect his mum kicks in, then, that need to reassure her that everything’s okay. It’s the driving force of everything he does nowadays, and it’s just a reflex when he says,

‘Sorry I haven’t called, Mum.’ He smiles, squeezing her ankle. ‘It’s just… you know. Busy. Loads of work and whatever.’

‘And fun too, yeah?’ She places her hand on his arm and when Zayn looks up to meet her eye, her face is painted with concern, her eyes wide and uneasy. ‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

Zayn stares back at her, his stomach twisting itself inside out, like his intestines winding themselves into knots and then pulling and tightening, so hard he feels sick. He thinks of all his folders stacked carefully in the box in the shed, evidence of the hours he spent at his desk preparing himself for the exams that would carry him to Cambridge, to his new life. He thinks of his parents’ faces on the day he moved in, the proud swell of his dad’s chest as he helped Zayn carry his suitcases to his room, the only brown person in sight. He thinks of all the conversations he’s overheard, the excited whispers of his mum to his aunties down the phone, how clever he is, first one in the family to go to uni, and to Cambridge, of all places! He thinks of Harry’s face last summer, their last night before Zayn left, the way he kicked that football so hard it went right through the fence. He thinks all of that, and he thinks of all the tear-stained nights he spent at uni wishing he was home, and then he looks at his mum’s anxious face, and he knows. He can’t leave. He can’t.

He can’t let them down.

It hurts so viscerally he feels a bit sick, but he ignores it as best he can. He knows there’s only one thing he needs to do, now. Only one thing he can do.

‘Of course I am,’ Zayn says with the best approximation of a smile he can manage, patting her ankle again. ‘Best uni in the world, init?’

‘Yeah, but –’

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ he promises firmly, reaching for the remote to turn up the TV. ‘Eat your horrible noodles before they go cold.’

His mum relaxes a little beside him, exhaling a laugh. ‘They’re not horrible.’

‘They’re _terrible_ ,’ Zayn says with a grin. ‘Now eat up.’

For a moment there’s silence, and Zayn’s never been more grateful for it, as close as he is to cracking. He tries to stare with interest at Corrie and tries to eat his noodles and most of all, tries not to seem like he’s probably almost dying, all the feeble positivity and optimism he’d managed to gather up this morning tumbling out of his arms and spilling out onto the carpet like sick, like blood, like all the bad thoughts he has have turned to a black gunk that seeps from the soles of his feet beneath them.

‘I’m so proud of you, you know,’ his mum says out of nowhere, and it brings tears to Zayn’s eyes. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do,’ he says, and he thinks, _I know that better than anything_. He knows it better than he thinks he knows himself, anymore. That’s what’s killing him.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn doesn’t go back to Harry’s like he promised.

He lies on the sofa with his mum all afternoon, watching _Loose Women_ and _Escape to the Country_ , and then it’s four and his sisters burst in from school, squabbling already. Wali had to go and collect Safaa from primary and they’ve argued on the way home about whether or not Safaa was allowed sweets from the shop, but as soon as they see Zayn the spat is forgotten, both of them gasping and throwing themselves at him, arms around his waist, huge toothy grins on display.

He’s a lot more popular now that he doesn’t live here all the time, and he relishes in it for a moment, letting his sisters yank his hair and knee him in the stomach and press their cheeks to his chest, holding him close.

And then the questions start.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Was it a surprise?’

‘For Mum?’

‘Cos she’s poorly?’

‘Are you coming home? For good?’

‘Don’t come home, I like having my own room!’

Zayn laughs as best he can and manages to shake them off with promises of karaoke nights and trips to the cinema which he knows he won’t fulfil until at least the summer. He avoids interacting with his family and scheduling trips home to visit them at all costs, because otherwise he knows he’ll crumble and beg to come home for good.

And all afternoon, he ignores Harry. He deliberately misses four of Harry’s calls, and then a text – _Are you still coming over? x_ – and then another – _Zaaaaayn?_ – and then another – _Well, I’m going to the pub around 8ish with mates from school. If you want to join I’ll see you there?_

Zayn thinks he might go, but then he doesn’t, because it’d be rude to leave without spending at least a little bit of time with his dad after he gets home from work. He helps his dad bring the shopping in from the car and makes him a cup of tea and is impaled with the whole _We’re so proud of you_ speech again, made worse this time because his dad has never been good at hiding his emotions and it takes over his whole face, the overwhelming pride he has for Zayn. Zayn nods and smiles and lies all over again, holding himself in like he’s got ropes tied around his insides, keeping himself together

The evening slips past. He can’t sit still; he’s fidgeting, checking his phone every five minutes even though Harry stopped trying hours ago, sneaking out for cigarettes until he’s smoked his whole pack and he stinks of it. If his parents notice, they don’t say anything, and his dad makes them all jalfrezi which they eat together around the table with a bottle of Coke because it’s a special occasion, even though when Zayn was Safaa’s age he was never allowed fizzy drinks on a school night. Someone suggests Skyping Doniya, which they do, and then it’s all six of them having dinner together like old times, and only one of them has a smile which doesn’t meet their eyes.

He waits and waits and waits until he can’t wait anymore, until he knows it’s last orders at the pub, and then he leaves. The girls have gone to bed along with his mum, so it’s just his dad still awake, watching late night boxing on one of the satellite channels. He kisses his dad’s cheek and squeezes his shoulder and says he’ll be back at Easter, can’t wait to be home, can’t wait to see you all properly, can’t wait, can’t wait, can’t wait.

And then he’s gone, the peeling front door shutting behind him, the garden gate squeaking on his hinges, pulling away from the place he wants to be most in the world like he’s walking forward on a bungee cord, pushing and pushing and pushing and waiting for the spring.

By the time he gets to the pub he’s rain soaked and shattered, and he can see them spilling out into the darkness, stumbling and laughing and shouting at the rain in surprise. His chest feels pre-emptively tense and he keeps his distance, standing under the shield of a tree and watching with a familiar clench of distress as Harry is swamped by his friends, at least five of them throwing themselves at him and ruffling his hair and smacking kisses to his cheeks. Zayn watches, rain incessantly pummelling against the pavement and drowning out their conversation, but even so he feels a little twinge of jealousy, interwoven with a slightly bigger hit of anxiety. It’s a bitter cocktail, one that lingers in all corners of his mouth and makes his throat dry. These people get to hang out with Harry everyday. There’s a big chance that Harry might like them better than Zayn. He might have realised Zayn’s actually a bit of a massive loser and has grown bored with his late-night messages when Zayn feels too lonely to sleep.

Self-consciousness slaps him in the face, stamps on his toes, punches him in the gut. He’s getting better at dealing with it – it’s not like Cambridge leaves him with much of a choice, those people can smell weakness – but it hurts all the same. He’s probably more than a little bit in love with Harry, and he calls him his boyfriend in his head, and even though he wouldn’t say it aloud, even though he’d _die_ if everyone knew, with a dark curl of something he doesn’t understand, he also _really_ wants them to.

 _Love_. It’s not a new thought, but he feels it then, in the numbing sting at the tips of his cold fingers, in the painful tightness of his chest. Harry smiles his stupid awful smile and he feels it in his mouth, too, the heat of it against his tongue, so hot he has to spit on the pavement.

There’s a huge gulf of space between them as Zayn stares at Harry with short breath, feeling relegated like a football player sent off the pitch. A boy Zayn doesn’t know slaps Harry on the arse, and Stacey Moore – who has openly had a crush on Harry since they were in Year Twelve – leans against his side and says something that Zayn imagines is completely stupid and inane and pointless in his ear. Harry laughs, though, and Zayn instantly decides with an intense ferocity that he hates her, and he shoves his hands in his pockets and resists the urge to march over there and steal him away.

But then gradually the friends trickle away one by one, back home to sober up before college tomorrow, and as soon as the crowd has dwindled enough, Zayn takes a few tentative steps forward. It takes a moment for Harry to notice him, Stacey Moore forgotten at his side as he finds Zayn scowling alone in the rain like a crazy person, hair clinging to his face and shirt stretched translucent across his shoulders. Harry smiles, a closed-lipped, secretive, triumphant smile, the dimples in his cheeks appearing only teasingly. It’s enough to sink the Titanic, that look on his face. Harry’s smile is the smile of someone who’s seen everything, the smile of someone who’s taken Zayn apart piece by piece in a way nobody else has and then carefully slotted him back together.

He’s not smiling at anyone else like that.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

They walk together back to Harry’s, rain frigid on their skin, forearms brushing but they’re not touching, not really. It’s dark and hideously cold, biting at Zayn’s knuckles and the tight skin over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Something guilty and regretful and so, so sad loiters under his skin like some kind of disease, so he keeps his eyes trained forward, not daring to glance at Harry. Recently it’s stress and anxiety that waits there just beneath the surface, lingering potent and ready to strike like a crocodile in a cartoon, but now, it’s just sad.

Harry’s a lot drunker than he’s trying to let on, tripping over his own feet and swearing under his breath. He reaches out to steady himself with Zayn’s elbow, holding so hard his nails press half moons over Zayn’s pulse, and then he doesn’t let go.

‘Where were you?’ he asks, and it’s not accusatory but it’s definitely flat. He looks straight ahead through wisps of damp hair and doesn’t meet Zayn’s eye. Neither of them can look at each other, and there’s a pressure in Zayn’s chest, a lid on a fizzed up bottle, steam in a pressure cooker, water pummelling a floodgate.

‘I was seeing my family, Haz.’

Harry nods. ‘Okay.’

‘Sorry I didn’t answer your texts,’ Zayn says after a horrendous beat of silence. He needs a fucking cigarette. He needs a fag and a shower and bed, and he needs Harry to hold him and never let go, and he also needs for Harry to turn away, to leave him right now and disappear around the corner forever so he doesn’t have to do this. ‘I just… I was busy.’

It’s a flimsy excuse and an even worse apology, but Harry just shrugs, hugely in his drunkenness, his shoulders rising high and then dropping like they’ve been weighted down. ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.’

He smiles at Zayn, and Zayn finds himself distracted, staring back at him stupidly. Harry’s face is the kind of face that attracts attention, a huge, glaring siren in a dull room, sharp cheekbones and pink lips and round, bright eyes. It’s the kind of face that makes you wish you had a camera on hand at all times, and sometimes Zayn looks at him and feels a bit overwhelmed. There’s a comfort to it, the familiar curve of his smile and the heart-breaking seriousness of his gaze and the achingly sweet way he laughs with his eyes screwed up. It feels safe and big and warm, something Zayn understands without ever having to try to.

That’s what it was like, when Zayn fell in love with him. Not a huge parade, not a sparkling firework display behind his eyelids or a theatrical production in the corridors of his heart. Everything up until then had been scary, peeling off an armour Zayn didn’t even know he had on and letting Harry slide his hands underneath, but that part – that made sense. Not so much _it’s you!_ , more of _hello, I’ve been waiting for you, for this._ An ease, an understanding, a feeling of coming home.

‘Someone asked about you,’ Harry slurs when Zayn doesn’t say anything, hand falling from Zayn’s elbow to curve around his wrist.

‘Who?’

‘Can’t remember. Loads of people did.’

Zayn frowns. ‘Why? What did they say?’

‘They asked if you were coming. Cos I said you would.’ Harry swallows and Zayn looks away from him, down at the pavement. Everyone knows Harry prefers hanging out with people older than him, that Louis and Zayn are his best friends, but even so, his heart springs to his throat with the force of a coiled spring snapping back into place. ‘And then they asked if we were, like. Together.’

Silence. Rain batters Zayn’s shoulders, his temples, the knees of his jeans, leaking through the hole in his Vans. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said no, obviously. I thought I’m not allowed to say,’ Harry says with another shrug, deliberately not looking at him. Zayn feels himself stiffen.

‘It’s not that you’re not _allowed_ to,’ he says defensively, and he shakes Harry’s hand off in a sudden surge of annoyance. ‘I just… it’s not –’

It’s not out, yet. _He’s_ not out. Not to his family, to the people who matter. It’s another stress that he really, really can’t deal with now, and so he shoves it away to the broad plains of the future, consigning his older self to deal with it.

‘It’s fine,’ Harry says quickly. ‘I don’t care what other people know and don’t know. Doesn’t matter to me.’

Zayn holds his breath. ‘I know.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, I know, H.’

Zayn swallows and presses his eyes shut, and then suddenly, he’s got his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist and he’s burying his face into Harry’s wet shoulder, clinging to him, breathing hard into his neck. There’s too many feelings and none of them are said out loud, and it’s all too much and not enough and Zayn’s too scared to change things between them and too afraid to let them stay the same. He presses his face into Harry’s hair and thinks of after uni, when things can happen between them for real. Sometimes it’s the only comfort he has, the only thing that pulls him through.

‘Harry,’ he says against his neck, feeling himself wilting when Harry presses a kiss to Zayn’s hair, his arms drawn tight across Zayn’s shoulders. ‘Harry, I don’t think I can do this.’

‘Do what?’ Harry murmurs back, unmoving.

Zayn holds him for one last moment, squeezing him so firmly he feels Harry’s breath hitch against his cheek, and then he draws back. Harry’s staring at him, face wet and serious, and Zayn thinks _you’re beautiful_ and _I love you_ and _I’m so sorry._

‘I don’t think I can do this anymore,’ Zayn says again quietly, his voice quivering.

Harry blinks. ‘What does ‘ _this_ ’ mean?’ he says, voice harsher now, eyes widening and eyebrows drawing in. ‘You’re not making sense, Zayn.’

Zayn stands completely motionless, not even blinking. He’s so still on the outside but his body is in overdrive; his pulse racing, his stomach churning. He tries to swallow but his spit’s turned into glue, pasting the inside of his mouth and creating a barricade over his throat. All he can think is – they’ve never argued before. They’ve bickered over what film to watch and what takeaway to order and who keeps stealing the covers and whether the newer episodes of _Star Wars_ are better than the older. They’ve never argued though, and Zayn watches as Harry’s expression darkens, his heart sinking like a corpse dumped in a lake.

‘Zayn. Say something.’

‘ _This_. Like… us. I don’t think I can do it anymore.’

He feels like he forces it out of himself and it hangs longer than it should do, loitering in the empty space in front of them like a cloud.

Harry jolts once, twice, before his face contorts into a frown. ‘Wait. _What?’_

‘It’s like… I can’t do it. I feel so stressed, all the time, it’s all I am.’ Zayn takes a deep steadying breath, trying to calm down, but Harry’s squinting at him like he’s speaking an alien language and if he doesn’t start to understand soon Zayn feels like he’ll shake him, or punch him, or collapse into his chest and cry and cry and cry. ‘I can’t keep reminding myself of all the stuff I’m missing, all the stuff that’s here.’ He swallows. ‘Uni’s – it’s so hard. It’s so intense and everyone’s just so – so different to me, and I feel like I’m trying to claw myself into line with everyone else and I can’t and instead I spend all my time wanting to come home. It makes me so sad, Harry. Do you understand?’

He doesn’t look like he understands. He doesn’t look like he understands at all. His eyes are huge, flickering across Zayn’s face, his eyebrows drawn together. ‘But I…’ He gulps. ‘What did I do wrong?’

Zayn sucks in a breath. ‘Harry, you didn’t –’

‘I tried to give you so much space,’ Harry spews out, babbling so fast Zayn can barely make out what he’s saying. ‘I never rang you first or made you come home or forced you to let me visit. You didn’t want me to visit and I didn’t mind. I wanted to let you settle in. I thought that’s what you wanted.’ His voice is getting higher, shaking, and Zayn can’t look at him so he presses his hands to his face, nails digging above his eyebrows like he wants to peel his skin off. ‘When Gem went to uni, she and her boyfriend visited each other every other weekend. I never even _mentioned_ anything like that. I didn’t – I never made you do anything, Zayn. I missed you so much and I – I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I know, it’s not…’ _It’s not you, it’s me_. It sounds so fucking cheap that Zayn can’t even say it.

‘Look at me.’ Harry yanks at his arm angrily. ‘Fucking look at me!’ Zayn lets his hands drop from his face and forces himself to look back at Harry, his sweet face all wrong and twisted, eyes glassy.

Zayn can’t remember a time he felt this awful, not even when he was hungover and vomited in his dad’s car last April, not even when his older sister walked in on him having phone sex with Harry and he had to lie and say that he’d been talking to Beth Stuart. Something billows in his lungs, tightening them like he’s forcing his insides inside a cardboard tube, and he remembers standing in his kitchen aged eight, the blind panic of a broken piece of crockery. That’s how he feels now, the splinters of the smashed plate slicing into him.

‘Tell me what I’m meant to say,’ Harry spits out desperately, hand still horribly tight around Zayn’s arm. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You can’t do anything,’ Zayn says. His voice is so small, beaten, broken, and he hates the way it sounds. ‘After uni, we can sort everything –’

‘After _uni_?’ Harry repeats in disbelief, and he stumbles backwards then, tearing himself away from Zayn. He laughs even though absolutely nothing’s funny. ‘Are you serious?’

The sudden distance hurts, strikes panic in Zayn’s blood, and he clutches at his hair. ‘You’re not listening to what I’m saying!’ he hears himself shouting, louder than he intended to. ‘You don’t fucking _listen_ , Harry!’

‘I am listening! You’re fucking breaking up with me.’

‘No,’ Zayn says emphatically, but he is. _He’s breaking up with Harry_. ‘I just can’t, okay?’ he hears himself saying, more loudly than he intended. ‘I can’t do this because every time you ring me I want to come home, and every time I see you I want to stay with you, and I – I fucking _hate_ it and I can’t take it, okay? I can’t take it and I don’t want to hurt you so just – so just try and –’

‘Do you want to get with other people?’ Harry interrupts, voice cutting right across Zayn’s. ‘Is that what this is about?’

Zayn resists the urge to scream in frustration. ‘No, it’s not –’

‘But do you want to?’

‘Harry –’

‘Do you want to or not? It’s a simple fucking question, Zayn!’

He stares straight at Zayn, painfully intense, unyielding, not looking away. ‘I don’t know, maybe?’ Zayn says desperately, stomach lurching. ‘I don’t know. Everyone does. It’s – that’s just uni, though, everyone does.’

‘Do they?’

‘You’ll want to.’

Harry shakes his head, mouth wobbling. ‘No I won’t,’ he says, voice low.

‘You will, it’s just a ¬–’

‘So what, you get there and you realise I’m not good enough?’ Harry says darkly, chest heaving. ‘You see all those rich clever fucking _brilliant_ people, all those Eton boys or whatever, and you think, _fuck this, I should be able to fuck who I want –’_

‘Harry –’

 _‘But shit, I’ve got fucking_ Harry _at home, what do I do about that waiting for me –’_

‘Stop it!’

‘Gem said this might happen. She warned me, she said long distance is hard, but I –’ His voice cracks and Zayn feels like it splinters his heart in two. ‘I just didn’t think you’d fucking leave me. I didn’t think you’d leave me.’

‘Just – please don’t be like this, you don’t –’

‘You couldn’t have told me this yesterday?’ Harry asks, wiping his hand across his face roughly. ‘Before we – we fucked and everything? Shit, Zayn, could you not have said it then? I can’t believe you – you let that happen when all this time you were thinking about this?’

‘No, it’s not –’

‘I was so happy this morning, and now you – you’ve fucking done this.’

Zayn’s battered heart gasps, and he remembers the smile on Harry’s face when Zayn arrived last night, the gentle sweep of his fingers across Zayn’s jaw, the pull of his lips against Zayn’s hipbone, the wetness of his mouth, the desperate arch of his back, the curl of his fingers around Zayn’s throat. He thinks of Harry this morning, kissing Zayn awake, his cold hand in Zayn’s boxers, the way he whispered _I missed you._

_Yesterday I wanted to stay and today I know I can’t._

‘I’m so sorry, Harry,’ Zayn splutters, reaching for him, thumbs rubbing across his cheeks and fingers pressing behind his ears. Even now, Harry doesn’t pull away from his touch, and it shreds the last of Zayn’s sanity to pieces. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t know how to make this better.’

Harry sniffs loudly, pulling back and pressing his wrist over his mouth.

‘You’re still my best friend,’ Zayn breathes. ‘You’re my best friend in the whole fucking world. This doesn’t mean I don’t – I don’t –’

 _Love you_ lingers almost tangibly between them, and Harry flinches like he’s been punched. Zayn reaches out for him again and Harry twists away like a cat, backing up so far his heels scuff against brick, damp hair falling in front of his eyes.

He thinks of Harry’s present, the record that he carefully wrapped up yesterday morning in his room at Cambridge. _Dark Side of the Moon._ It’s sitting in the corner of Harry’s bedroom, unopened, forgotten about last night in the rush to feel each other again. He thinks of Harry opening it tomorrow and he wants to fall down the cracks in the drain.

It’s devastatingly silent for a long time, and Zayn thinks, _I’m too young for this._ He’s got a half-formed heart willing itself to be broken.

‘I should go,’ he says eventually, sniffing loudly and pushing his damp hair away from his face. There’s an early train back to Cambridge in five hours. He’ll go and sit in a 24 hour McDonald’s somewhere. He’d sit in the gutter if he had to.

He wants Harry to say no. He wants Harry to shake his head and lurch forward and punch Zayn across his stupid selfish face, and then he wants Harry to sweep him up and kiss him and take Zayn home. He wants to climb back into bed with him and tell Harry he’s sorry until his voice is hoarse, and when it’s finally enough they can sleep and tomorrow the sun will rise and the world won’t have ended and Zayn won’t be able to leave then. The past six months will fade into monochrome insignificance with every second he stays, warm and safe, in Harry’s bed. He wants to stay there forever, wants to bundle himself up in Harry’s duvet and sew the corners to his fingers and toes, envelope Harry in it, fold him into a pillow that he can squeeze tightly to his chest and press against his heart. One more night with Harry will break his resolve, shatter it into little confetti pieces that he’ll scoop up and burn on a pyre with all the things that could have been, the roads Cambridge could have taken him down flickering into ash, and Zayn will watch it burn and he’ll feel fucking _relief._

But Harry doesn’t say anything, just stares unblinkingly at Zayn, his whole face broken. Zayn reaches out to touch him again with the energy and will of a zombie, but at the last moment he decides better of it, letting his arm hover uncomfortably in the space between them before falling limply to his side.

They used to be able to touch for hours, without hesitation. Zayn used to find his hands on Harry even when he didn’t realise he was reaching for him, their hands intertwined as they watched TV, their knees pressed together under the table. He’d stretch out a hand and Harry would be waiting for him, and it was simple. Now he can’t even bring himself to speak, let alone touch. He doesn’t even say goodbye.

Later, Zayn will obsess over the look on Harry’s face when he turns to walk away. He’ll remember the quaver of his lips and the hurt pinch between his eyebrows, replay the betrayal that swims in his eyes before it’s replaced by a hard kind of acceptance, an inevitability, as though he should have known this was coming. Zayn will lie in bed and wonder _what if_ – what if he’d never said anything, if he’d followed Harry home and curled up beside him and stayed there for a week, a month, the whole year, hiding under the duvet with their legs tangled and his face pressed to Harry’s neck, time kept and measured by the drum of Harry’s pulse, the sound of him breathing, the regular sweep of his hand across Zayn’s back.

As it is, those thoughts are resigned to later. They’ll spring up when Zayn’s running across campus, having overslept again, when he’s writing an essay and trying to remember how to think straight, when he’s lying in bed alone and he feels the emptiness of his bed scorching like a forest fire across his skin, hopelessly aching for Harry beside him. For now, though, he turns to walk away, hands in his pockets, head down, and doesn’t look back, not knowing that in that moment, he changes everything between them forever.

 

 

  
**__**

****

****

**_and darling right now, I can’t see you_  
Friday, 1st March 2013**

 

 

‘What do you think, Zayn?’

Zayn looks up, blinks. The seminar room is too dark and too small and there’s so many eyes on him, staring at him with a blank lack of expectation. He feels his heart racing but it’s like it’s not even part of him anymore, like it’s hooked up to a monitor and he’s hearing it from a distance.

He would know the answer, if he’d listened. Or done the reading. Or invested any part of himself to this course. But the fact is, trying and failing is worse than not trying at all. He’s lost too much, too many parts of himself, to lose his pride too. Self-sabotage, some might say, but Zayn would call it self-preservation.

He stares right back, sets his jaw, tilts his chin up, and thinks, _Fuck you. I’m just a dumb brown state-school Bradford boy, yeah? Don’t get many of those around here, do you? Course I don’t know the answer. Fuck you._

‘I don’t know,’ Zayn says.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn’s face is illuminated by the bright screen of his laptop as he stares blankly at the word document, the blinding glare casting light and morphing shadows in what Zayn knows is an unflattering way across his face. It’s a Friday morning, he’s aware of that – only because his essay is due Monday, and he counts time by essays now – and the sound of birds chirping gleefully can be heard from behind the drawn curtains.

He’s staring and staring and staring at the screen, but nothing is coming. It hasn’t come for the last three essays now, all of them returned to Zayn with a frown and a _see me later, Malik_ , and with a horrible jolt of panic that strikes him right in the centre of his manically caffeinated heart, he suddenly knows he’s going to fail. Even though he instigated this, and even though he’s had this epiphany with almost every essay he’s attempted for the last two years, his hands shake with it.

 _You’re letting people down_ , a shrill voice in his head reminds him, and fuck, this is a calamity. A compete, unmitigated disaster. He slams his laptop shut angrily, which is the next best thing to lobbing it out the window and setting it on fire in the middle of the quad, and then he collapses onto his desk, head in his hands.

It’s been a horrendous week, even before he started the Essay From Hell. Zayn slept through his alarm on Tuesday and missed his tutorial, and then on Wednesday he got slapped with a fine for £50 because he forgot to return the books he hasn’t read to the library. He’d like to say this doesn’t happen often, but it’s his third offence since September and the librarian officially hates him, now, which hurts way more than it should. His neighbour George – a gangly boy who went to school at Harrow and dresses like a twat – brought a girl back two nights in a row, and what little sleep Zayn manages to get these days was interrupted by the sound of them fucking with obnoxiously loud enthusiasm. Zayn lay there trying to block out the noise, awake and alone, the sheets too cold and empty around him, and felt overcome with so many feelings he didn’t entirely understand, all of them rushing towards him at once like a stampede.

He’s found out a secret since starting Cambridge, something that’s been hidden from him for the past twenty years, and it’s that stress is a real, substantial thing. _‘I’m stressing out!’_ people often say, like it’s not something that can take over your entire body, robbing you of sleep, snatching away your appetite, thrusting a spoon into your skull and stirring around your brain until you can’t see straight. It overwhelms Zayn, _consumes_ him, and half the time he feels like he’s wearing a costume of who he used to be, in all the same clothes and with the same face, but his insides have been scooped out and dumped somewhere he can’t find them, anxiety re-forming his body and slotting it together in an ill-fitting way, like an IKEA flatpack done wrong.

With his head in his hands, and struck with the realisation that absolutely everything is wrong with the world, Zayn feels a strange sense of calm wash over him. Maybe his parents won’t mind him coming home if it’s performance related, if they realise Zayn’s not quite as clever as they’ve been led to believe. If not – maybe he can stay with Anne. With Harry.

The thought ignites something low in his stomach, some kind of painful longing which he doesn’t have time to deal with anymore. How can he, when his room stinks of smoke and coffee, his ashtray is overflowing, and his hair is so greasy from running his hands that it hangs in limp curtains over his forehead, a look that started and ended in the ‘90s where it belongs.

‘Good fucking Christ, Zayn, what happened to you?’

Zayn turns so quickly in his desk chair he nearly topples out of it, breath jamming at the back of his throat, holey socks flailing in the air.

He’s here. Harry. He’s here.

For a brief, insane moment, Zayn thinks he might be a mirage, standing there in the open doorway, light spilling in from behind him and illuminating the outline of him like some shaggy-haired, skinny-jeaned Jesus. He’s squinting through the darkness at Zayn with a look of frank disgust on his face, clutching at a suspiciously full bag hanging off one shoulder, and then the only thing Zayn can think is _fuck, I look terrible. I look fucking terrible._

‘What are you doing here?’ Zayn asks, a bit more stiffly than he would have liked. He doesn’t make a move to get up, seeing as he feels as though he’s suddenly been superglued to the blue fabric of his desk chair. Harry blinks at him, taken aback, and then shrugs, shuffling into the room and throwing his bag down onto Zayn’s bed.

‘Thought it was about time I came and saw Cambridge,’ he says nonchalantly, as though announcing the weather. He peers around Zayn’s tiny little room in a way that makes Zayn feel self-conscious, like he’s being examined naked by a scary doctor.

He seems to have forgotten that in first year, when they were together, Zayn made it explicitly clear he didn’t want Harry to visit him, and also that he wasn’t invited. He picks up one of Zayn’s books, leafing through it before setting it back down, and Zayn wants to fucking punch him.

‘It’s kind of a bad time,’ Zayn says, still haughty and still seated, but Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.

He crosses the room and leans over Zayn to draw back the curtains, muttering inane things about natural light and vitamin C. His t-shirt falls away from his body as he does so, revealing a thin, obscene slither of pale skin just below his navel. There’s a smattering of hair poking out of the waistband of his jeans, just enough that Zayn’s body jolts into overdrive like he’s a car that’s been jumpstarted. Everything hits him all at once, like a smack in the face – Harry’s here, _he’s_ here, and he smells like coconut and deodorant and _boy_ and everything he’s always smelled like, and he’s here, right _here_ – and he has to stop himself from reaching out to grab Harry’s thigh.

‘Has Cambridge turned you into a vampire?’ Harry asks as light pours into the room. Zayn flinches away from it, scowling. ‘Am I gonna have to sue?’

He steps away from Zayn and crosses his arms. There’s a new tattoo on the inside of his left bicep, a star. _How fucking cliché is that_ , Zayn thinks bitterly, but mostly he’s thinking of how much he wishes he’d known about it before Harry showed it up. It’s a big thing, a tattoo. It’ll be there forever, as much of a part of him as his bones and his blood and all his insides, and Zayn doesn’t get to know about it until it’s waved in his face.

All of a sudden he has quite an enormous urge to cry.

‘Zayn?’ Harry prompts when Zayn does nothing but stare at him. His lips are pouted and puckered up into a teasing smile, his hair short and messy. Zayn can still smell him, the soft cleanness of him that filters even through the heavy stench of smoke and coffee.

_Concentrate, concentrate._

‘No. Yeah, I mean … no,’ Zayn mutters, rendered idiotic.

Harry just smiles, flopping back down onto Zayn’s bed and looking around again, at the posters on the walls, Jhene Aiko and Michael Jackson and The Joker, at the books stacked haphazardly on the mantel that he’d just been fiddling with. There’s a picture of Harry tucked inside the front cover of Malcom X’s autobiography, lying back on the green outside his house, head tilted towards the camera, hair in his eyes. Zayn swallows with fear thinking about him finding it, but then Harry stretches and the t-shirt rises up again and Zayn’s blood heats up by at least ten degrees. He pinches at his thigh through his jeans.

‘Must admit, I was expecting a better reception,’ Harry says to the ceiling.

Zayn clears his throat. ‘You ought to have told me you were coming.’

‘Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise?’

‘I didn’t want a surprise.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just… because.’

‘Well. I wanted to surprise you.’

A stale sort of silence hangs in the even staler air. Zayn opens the window.

‘What have you been up to, then?’

‘Just this essay. It’s due Monday, but I’ve only written fifty words. I can’t fucking think, Harry, it’s driving me up the fucking wall. I’ve forgotten how to think.’

‘You need to go outside,’ Harry suggests calmly, which is annoying in itself. He bends one knee, placing one foot flat on the bed as he snakes a hand up his t-shirt to scratch at his chest. Zayn closes his eyes, ignoring the ache that’s inconsiderately stamping his insides into mulch.

‘I _can’t_ go outside,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘If I go outside it won’t get done.’

‘You’re sitting inside and it’s not getting done,’ Harry points out.

He’s irritatingly right and Zayn can’t disagree with him, so he bites the inside of his cheek and changes the subject.

‘How’s Manchester?’

Harry sighs, sitting up and leaning back on one elbow. ‘I quit,’ he says unceremoniously, picking up Zayn’s glasses from his bedside cabinet and fiddling with them.

‘What do you mean you’ve quit?’ Zayn asks with some alarm, frowning at him. ‘Are you joking?’

‘Nope.’

‘You’ve quit, like, for real?’

‘Yep.’

‘This isn’t a joke?’

‘Nope.’

‘Why?’

Harry shrugs. ‘It was fun, you know. Like, freshers and that. Sex, partying. All that uni stuff.’ He says that pointedly and something ugly coils up in Zayn’s stomach. He kicks at the leg of his desk. ‘But the actual studying felt so pointless. _Music technology_. I wasn’t enjoying it at all. Why don’t I just, you know. Make music.’

Zayn stares at him blankly. Harry’s idealism used to be endearing – _I’m gonna write songs that touch every inch of the earth, Zayn, I’m gonna change the world_ – but now it’s just frustrating. He’s been like this for as long as Zayn’s known him; started three different bands, became suddenly wildly enthusiastic about football before giving it up as soon as he made the Sixth Form team, took up Spanish intensely for a fortnight before selling his Rosetta Stone CD on eBay. But you can’t just drop out of uni because you’re not enjoying it. You can’t just give up at the first sign of boredom, the first creeping niggle of doubt that things _might_ not be going the way you planned. The world doesn’t work like that, and Zayn snorts, shaking his head and lighting a cigarette.

Harry looks away from the glasses, stares steadily over at him. ‘Why is that funny?’ he asks, deadpan.

Zayn exhales a stream of smoke slowly. ‘You think uni’s just meant to be a good time,’ he says carefully, which doesn’t entirely answer the question but he’s starting to feel a bit bad for laughing. ‘It’s not.’

‘So what is it about?’ Harry bites back sharply. ‘Sitting alone in your room in the dark?’

Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t start.’

‘Your idea of an all-nighter is on your laptop, yeah? Listening to fucking Mozart and reading sonnets or – or some shit?’

‘That has…’ Zayn struggles for the words, shaking his head and looking out the window in exasperation, ‘absolutely nothing to do with anything I do, you twat.’

‘What is it you do, then? Wank off to Nietzsche and cry about how alone you are?’

‘Sounds about right, yeah. Better than waking up in a stranger’s bed and hobbling off to the clinic every other Saturday morning.’

‘Better than my balls going blue.’

‘Better than getting a First in being a fucking pisshead wanker.’

‘Better than getting a First in being a total fucking loser.’

‘How _mature_ , Harry.’

They glare at each other. ‘When was the last time you had sex?’ Harry asks, his voice blunt and cold and very un-Harry-ish, and Zayn looks away from him, ignoring the fact his stomach is twisting itself into queasy knots.

 _With you_ , he nearly says, _in January_. Zayn’s last night in Bradford, they had sex in the dark after a night at the pub. Harry came so hard he stopped breathing, eyes rolling back into his head, skin burning, and as soon as he fell asleep Zayn left, like he always does these days. Ever since they broke up, he leaves before the morning, and Harry wakes to an empty bed.

He doesn’t give Harry the satisfaction. ‘None of your business.’

Harry swallows, puts the glasses back on the table. ‘Was it me?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Harry.’

‘I’m just asking.’

Zayn groans under his breath. ‘Fuck’s sake, just drop it. It’s not a big deal.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Just – sex!’ Zayn says helplessly. There’s a sting in his chest and he rubs at it through his t-shirt.

‘Clearly,’ Harry mumbles. ‘You fucking scarper as soon as you’ve got your breath back.’

That hits Zayn hard, hard enough that he opens his mouth fruitlessly, lips grappling at words that don’t come. He can see it in his face, the year-deep betrayal that darkens Harry’s expression before he looks down at the duvet, a frown puckering up his eyebrows.

‘Do you want to go out somewhere?’ Zayn asks, breaking the dreadful silence and standing up just to fill the empty space between them. He stubs out his cigarette in an empty coffee mug and claps his hands together, like a teacher in front of an unenthusiastic class.

‘What about your essay?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He tugs off his t-shirt and throws it in the vague direction of the wash basket, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice Harry staring. ‘I’ll just have a quick shower, and we’ll go out.’

‘Good, you stink.’

Zayn wants to laugh, but something in him feels like it’s drowning and he doesn’t have the heart to. ‘See you in a bit, H.’

 

 

  
+++  


 

 

They stride out into the crisp March afternoon with an air of determination and an unspoken agreement to stop the awkwardness before it can really get going. Harry’s wrapped up in a hoodie that definitely used to be Zayn’s and it’s making Zayn’s heart perform an Olympic gymnastic routine in his chest, but he bravely does his best to act like a sane person and ignores it, eyes forward, stomach hiccoughing dangerously.

They go for coffee in this awful, pretentious café on one of many identical cobbled streets, where bikes are chained messily to lampposts as though posing for an indie photoshoot. Everyone inside is talking about Freud or predictions for economic growth or their latest tute, and Zayn feels a prick of self-consciousness as Harry’s face twists up into something dangerously close to a scowl.

He orders himself a double espresso, to keep him awake, and Harry a latte. He pours three sugars in, because Harry has no taste and is just an overgrown child with a sweet tooth, and when he sits down and pushes the coffee towards him, Harry blinks at him like he’s just handed him a fucking diamond ring.

 _It’s only coffee,_ Zayn wants to say, but it’s not, really. They know each other’s exact orders for everything. They know each other inside out and back to front and they don’t even need to ask, anymore, because they just _know_. Zayn knows Harry’s never quite forgiven his dad for moving to Australia, and that he doesn’t like leaving any food on his plate because he thinks it’s rude, so he’ll eat till he’s nearly sick if he has to, and that he can’t sleep without something covering him, even in summer, and that he has a tiny birthmark on the curve of his hip, the same colour as the one on his wrist, smaller than a raspberry.

That’s not just coffee.

Harry’s gaze slides away from him, mouth drooping into a bit of a grimace as he looks out of the window, and his sour face tells Zayn that he’s decided already that he hates Cambridge. He knows Harry's brief stint in halls at Man Met must have been very different to this. Zayn went to visit Louis at Manchester just before Christmas in their first year and found himself shocked by it, the fact that his corridor permanently reeked of weed and beer and hormones, that none of the taps ever stopped dripping, that people pissed on each other’s carpets for a joke.

Cambridge is … not like that. Cambridge is very old, very brown, very creaky and very delicate. Zayn often feels like he's in his grandma’s house, terrified to touch anything in case it breaks. He feels like he's in a Hogwarts that threatens to self-destruct at any point.

Sometimes Zayn thinks he shouldn’t be here. He should be somewhere like Manchester with Louis and Eleanor, or Man Met with Harry, where people go clubbing every night without guilt, where he can miss his lectures without nearly crying, somewhere he doesn’t end up looking so thin and wan and worn out.

‘Drink up, babe,’ Zayn says with a tired grin, because Harry’s just staring at him and hasn’t touched his coffee. Zayn knows he looks exhausted – unshaven, chapped lips, hollow cheeks – but Harry’s still drinking in his face unabashedly like he’ll never see it again, like Zayn’s the most gorgeous person in the room. Zayn thinks of Harry in clubs in Manchester, of people pointing at him, their hearts beginning to hum, watching his long limbs and broad shoulders and stupid awful bloody posture. He thinks of Harry’s perfect awful mouth, catching the light across the room, the smudge of shadow below his bottom lip, thinks of people stumbling towards him through whole crowds, throwing themselves at him. He kind of wants to cry, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat, drowning it in coffee.

If Harry notices this change in Zayn’s face, he doesn’t show it. He thumbs at the rim of his mug, impossibly light eyelashes casting little spider-shadows across his cheekbones, and Zayn notices his nails are bitten down to the quick.

‘What are you going to do now, H?’ Zayn asks, if only to break the silence, and Harry’s eyes follow the movement of Zayn’s lips for a moment, eyelids wilting.

‘Well,’ Harry starts, swallowing and tearing his gaze away from Zayn’s mouth, ‘stay at yours, hopefully?’

‘Not _now_ ,’ Zayn says with a roll of his eyes, ‘like, in life. Now that you’re not at uni.’

‘Oh! Oh. I don’t know.’

Zayn raises his eyebrows pointedly, blowing into his mug before taking a careful sip. Zayn wouldn’t call himself quick to anger but sometimes, Harry’s lack of direction makes his blood feel like it’s curdling.

‘What’s that look for?’ Harry says quickly, eyebrows furrowing.

‘What look?’

‘That annoying look on your face.’

Zayn pretends to be offended. ‘I’m not doing anything!’

‘It’s not like I don’t have a _plan_ ,’ Harry says a bit too defensively to be casual, sweaty hands clinging to the leather arms of his chair. ‘I know what I want to do.’

‘Be a musician,’ Zayn says flatly, nodding.

Harry looks like he wants to smack him.

‘Yes,’ he says, gritting his teeth.

‘So what are you gonna do in the meantime?’

‘I don’t know. Learn to drive. Get a few more tattoos. I thought I might get my nosed pierced. Go travelling. See the world, you know?’

Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up again, and he hides what he wants to say behind his mug.

‘I’m not stupid,’ Harry says quickly, digging his nails into the leather. ‘I know it’s risky, and you don’t _approve_ , but who cares? You only get one life, right?’

‘I care,’ Zayn says slowly, lips muffled by the mug. He knows there’s _nothing_ in life that irritates Harry more than not being taken seriously, but he can’t really find it in him to stop himself. ‘I care if you fuck your life up.’

‘Who said anything about fucking my life up?’

‘Well, I just did.’

Harry huffs in exasperation. ‘Jesus, Zayn, you sound like my dad.’

‘And maybe he has a point!’ Zayn hisses. Harry scowls and looks emphatically away from him, eyes trained somewhere over Zayn’s shoulder. ‘You’re proper clever, you know, you could – you could do an actual degree –’

‘What, my other degree wasn’t an _actual_ degree?’

‘I don’t mean that, I just mean like – in Sociology or something, you did really well in that at college –’

‘I don’t want to do Sociology!’

‘Or could you actually finish your music degree, and then try the music thing after, or on the side, you know. Loads of people at uni are in bands part time –’

‘I don’t want to do it on the side!’ Harry snaps, and a lady in the corner with a worrying perm turns to glare at him. Mouthing sorry at her, he turns back to Zayn and repeats more quietly, ‘I don’t want to do it on the side.’

Zayn just stares at him, and Harry stares back, looking at him like he can see inside him, like he has x-ray vision. For a moment, Zayn feels like a fraud, for berating Harry for bailing out of uni when that’s something Zayn _dreams_ of doing at least three times a day, and Harry looks at him like he knows. They look at each other and there’s an ocean between them that Zayn wants to break, wants to lob something at it to rupture the surface and prove there’s something underneath.

‘My mate Niall from uni dropped out too,’ Harry mumbles, dropping his eyes down to the murky black of his untouched coffee. ‘We’re gonna go travelling together. Write some stuff, do some gigs. It’ll be cool.’

‘Yeah, that’ll be cool,’ Zayn says, voice soft now. When Harry doesn’t respond, he leans forward, brushing his knee against Harry’s before squeezing it. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ Harry says in a tone that clearly says worry about me.

‘It’s not fine. This is what friends are meant to be for, yeah?’

 _Friends._ ‘Mmm,’ Harry says noncommittally.

‘I just…’ Zayn trails off, licking his lips, and when Harry looks up at him with wide, round eyes, Zayn has to resist the urge to throw himself into Harry’s lap in the middle of the coffee shop and say _I love you_ against his mouth. ‘I care about you,’ Zayn says quietly, eyes darting everywhere but Harry because the way he looked at him just then had the whole stupid coffee shop flipping upside down and the walls caving in and the floor crumbling beneath their feet.

He coughs and then builds up the courage to look back over at him, holding his breath. He smiles, not as big a smile as he gave to the girl behind the counter, but one that’s soft and just as genuine, and Harry smiles back. There’s hope in that smile that Zayn hasn’t seen in Harry all day, that Zayn hasn’t felt in _himself_ for a long time, and he feels a small part of himself disintegrate, a hole in himself he’ll never get back.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

To lots of people, summer smells like sweat, like sun cream, like the sand you find between your toes when you're trying to sleep hours later. To Zayn, summer always smelt like lamb kofta and charcoal, because although they never went on holiday, his dad always made sure they had a barbecue, as though these things were somehow equivalent.

Harry invited himself over for the last barbecue in the summer before Zayn went to university, and Zayn had to begrudgingly let him because he couldn't think of a good enough reason to un-invite him. And of course, Harry played the role of Zayn's Best Friend well, charming his aunties and little cousins, talking about United with his uncles, smothering his mum with borderline inappropriate compliments and helping his dad stoke the barbecue. Zayn watched him in a strangely catatonic state of being, feeling himself alarm and begin to sweat through his top but confusingly unable to move to intervene when Waliyha tried to flirt with him in her self-conscious, thirteen-year-old way. Harry didn't even seem to realise, smiling generously when she complimented his Queen t-shirt even though Zayn was sure she'd listened almost exclusively to the High School Musical Soundtrack for her entire lifetime.

Things became unbearable when Harry started asking questions – _so what's it like in Pakistan, then? Weather’s good I bet_ – and Zayn announced loudly that Harry, who was halfway through his bowl of ice cream, had to be going home. Harry obliged without question like Zayn knew he would, and they both ignored Doniya sniggering, 'you don't need to walk him home, he's not your girlfriend'. And then they were trudging back towards Harry's, hands in pockets, and Harry looked at him and very calmly said, 'did I embarrass you?'

'What? No! No. Not at all. Why?' Zayn said, very quickly. Harry smiled a little tightly and looked at his feet.

'It's okay if you were. Or, not okay. But like, you can say.'

'No, definitely not,' Zayn said assertively, wagging his head like a dog. In truth, he was for the first time in his life a little embarrassed by his family, his mum's eager to please smile and his uncle's habit of spitting when he spoke and his sister's attempts at flirtation. He loves them more than anyone, but the thought of Harry's family – Anne's liberal parenting, her lack of discipline, her not minding that Zayn was very obviously fucking her son while she lay in bed two doors away – made him cringe in comparison. There was noone else in the world he would want his mum to be, but somehow in Harry's presence she seemed different, more real and therefore more faulty, and he wanted to protect her from this abrasion in his mind.

'You sure?'

'Yep.'

Harry seemed to psychically register Zayn's discomfort, though, because a few moments later he was tugging Zayn down the alleyway between Mr Kumar’s corner shop and the laundrette, pressing him against the wall and kissing him so hard Zayn felt himself go limp and pliant almost immediately, clinging to Harry's shoulders. He had a brief mental flash of them fucking the previous afternoon, Zayn's cheek against the wall in Harry's hallway, their shorts pooling at their feet, and he whimpered pathetically when Harry pulled away.

'It would have been cool if I'd been at the barbecue as like, your boyfriend,' Harry said, breathless from the kissing but very collected and achingly sincere all the same. 'Like, I wanted to agree with your dad when he was saying how proud he was of you. But that's not a Straight Boy thing to do.'

He grinned, half-joking, but Zayn swallowed and looked away from him. 'Yeah. But just...'

'Not now, I know. That’s okay.' From anyone else, this might have sounded passive aggressive, insincere, frustrated, but not from Harry. His sharp, serious face, that concentrated pucker between his eyebrows, melted into a reassuring smile that Zayn found thoroughly unreasonable but appreciated all the same. And Harry meant it, because if there was one thing certain, it was how they felt for each other and how difficult that feeling would be to sever.

It made Zayn wonder what was wrong with him. How could one half of them be so calmly, intensely untroubled, when Zayn felt such polar extremes of emotion? When he was with Harry he was cripplingly ecstatic, half-blinded by adoration. And then when they were apart, he couldn't help but worry, worry about the distance, about the possibility that Harry would find someone else, about the excruciating difference between them. Zayn often wondered whether he felt more than Harry, whether he had too much emotion and it was so much that some of it was spilling out the sides of happiness, diluting into anxiety.

And then the following February, when Zayn broke up with him, Harry started to feel it. All the insecurity he'd been apparently immune from, all the things that set him apart from Zayn, infected him in just the same way as they did Zayn that summer. Jealousy and self-loathing and doubt and frustration, leaking into him like a disease, just as potent as his prior happiness but now with a sharp, bitter aftertaste. That sweet little concentrated crease between his eyebrows became a frown, the pull of his lips now angled downwards.

And sometimes it keeps Zayn awake at night, wondering whether he did that to him, whether he remoulded Harry into a worse version of himself. He had all the good parts of Harry, all that sweet serious intensity, and he flung them against the wall and then was startled when they rolled back to him changed, broken, a distorted image of who he was before. Zayn lies in his cold bed with his arms wrapped around himself, staring at the blank ceiling, and he can't help but think that this, in all its monstrous entirety, is all his fault.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn ends up abandoning the essay entirely after a miserable dinner of stew and rice back at college. It’s clear Harry hates Cambridge, and Zayn’s too proud to admit he hates it too, so they eat in silence. Then they trail back to the room in silence and sit on Zayn’s bed in silence, and suddenly the silence is unbearably deafening, echoing in Zayn’s eardrums and his heartbeat and every strained heave of his lungs, so he pulls Harry up and announces they’re going out.

Cambridge is not the type of place that has clubs and drugs on tap so they have to settle for the pub, but it’s nice in a way. It reminds Zayn of all the times he and Louis smuggled Harry into pubs when he was underage, pushing him over to chat up Sally Davies behind the bar so she wouldn’t ID him. It reminds Zayn of stumbling home after last orders, lurching back to Harry’s, collapsing into bed with him and laughing and laughing and laughing. It reminds him of summer in the beer garden, holding Harry’s hand under the table as they watched Louis desperately tried to flirt with Eleanor, buying each other fruity cocktails for a laugh and tasting them on each other when they went home.

It’s not like home, though, as much as Zayn wishes it was. It’s just the two of them tonight, in a shit pub down some dark street in Cambridge where they’ve got the news blaring on the television in the corner. A study says a hundred million sharks are killed every year.

Harry’s on pint number three and with every sip he’s been shuffling closer to Zayn so that now their legs are entirely pressed together under the table. Zayn swallows, tries not to let it get to him, but the last time he and Harry had sex was a drunken, sad mess which Zayn vowed to not repeat. They’re meant to be done with that now, fucking around. They spent a miserable summer doing so last year, in such painful contrast to their summer before; desperate, un-intimate, angry sex that Zayn never saw through to the morning because it hurt too much, and they’re meant to be done with it. It’s too painful to watch Harry fall apart and mumble Zayn’s name like a litany and then bicker and snap at him as soon as they’re clothed and not touching.

But even so, you’d have to be an idiot not to notice how Harry looks at him – even now the adolescent adoration has gone and a strange, dejected anger has replaced it – and Zayn’s not an idiot. He knows that when Harry fucks strangers in Manchester he probably thinks of Zayn, that when he comes he has to bite back Zayn’s name from pouring out of his mouth, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t prompt a curl of victory in the pit of his stomach. He can fuck as many random people as he likes, but he’ll never be able to fuck Zayn out of his system. And then Harry touches Zayn’s knee under the table with such maddening hesitation, like he’s terrified of being pushed away, and Zayn’s heart crumbles like a Jenga tower, clattering down with a crash that reverberates in his blood.

The world Zayn lives in now, the life at Cambridge he’s carved for himself, is nothing but anxiety and stress and an almost gruesome desperation to prove himself. And at the edge of it all is Harry, a slice of warm, dependable light in the grave Zayn feels like he’s been dug into, and Zayn can’t let go of him. It’s like he’s digging his claws in and refusing to budge, a surly cat being prised off a blanket, and it works because no matter how hard Harry tries to stop himself, he’ll always end up back in bed with Zayn. The whole of last summer was proof of that, and the Christmas holidays too. Zayn clings on and on, breaks Harry’s heart because he’ll never stay to see the morning, and then it starts all over again, the whole thing repeating itself the next time they have one too many pints and Harry can’t stop himself from reaching out for Zayn’s leg.

It doesn’t make him a good person, but it’s the truth. He used to be a good person. He used to walk the neighbour’s dog when she had to work late and buy his dad the paper on his way home from school and head over to Harry’s, rain or shine, whatever the weather, if Harry asked him to be there. He watched Cameron Diaz films for a whole afternoon with Gemma when she had an argument with her boyfriend and Harry was away on a trip with college. He took Louis to hospital when he turned up on Zayn’s doorstep paralytic, even though Zayn was meant to be revising for his exams. He used to hide sweets for his sisters under their pillows. He used to be a nice person.

He feels too tired to be a nice person now. Being nice requires energy that Zayn doesn’t have to spare anymore. He’s a Russian doll of a person, down to the last, tiniest one, hollow on the inside with a smile painted on.

‘So where do you want to go travelling?’ Zayn asks in what he hopes is a casual voice, looking away from the TV to Harry like they meet up for pints every evening and are discussing the latest traffic reports about the M2, not the rest of Harry’s life.  
‘Wanna go to Ibiza,’ Harry says, a little dreamily, and Zayn tries not to snort. ‘Niall and I are thinking of doing the party circuit. Maga, Zante, Napa, Ibiza.’

‘Sounds classy,’ Zayn says bluntly. He’s being mean and he isn’t sure why, but then Harry’s hand is burning a fucking hole through Zayn’s jeans and his heart is starting to feel too big for his chest. ‘Sure you’ll get loads of song inspiration from all the stimulating conversation.’

‘And where would you suggest?’ Harry mumbles, looking down at the table sulkily. He takes his hand away from Zayn’s leg and it makes Zayn want to throw the table over. ‘Somewhere fucking boring, most likely.’

‘Maybe Rome, or Athens. Somewhere with nice architecture.’

‘Sure my Nanna would love that.’

‘Your Nanna would be better company than you, then.’

‘I’ll hook the pair of you up.’

‘What about Barcelona?’ Zayn tries, aware he sounds like middle-aged and awful but unsure how to stop himself. ‘Good night life and all the Gaudi stuff too.’

‘No offence, Zayn, but I don’t give a shit about old crumby buildings. And neither do you, if you were being honest.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Zayn snaps, but Harry just shrugs and drains his glass.

‘Whatever.’

‘What _do_ you give a shit about?’

Harry pauses, lips pursing in contemplation. ‘I wanna go to the Indra in Hamburg.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Beatles’ first concert venue.’

‘Fair,’ Zayn says with a conceding shrug. He’s too tired to argue.

‘There’s a place in Amsterdam as well, Parasido. Glen Matlock’s last gig with The Sex Pistols was there. Well, the first _last_ gig. Before he rejoined.’

Harry can barely contain his enthusiasm at the idea, eyes brimming with the kind of excitement that Zayn can’t seem to get a grip of anymore, and maybe he’s jealous. Maybe he’s starting to resent Harry because Harry sees the world through rose-coloured glasses, the way Zayn wishes he could, but he can’t build up the courage to reach out and try them on.

Zayn drains his pint glass, and says with a horrible kind of flatness, ‘How rock’n’roll of you.’

Harry frowns, and Zayn sort of hates himself then.

There’s a moment of excruciating quiet before Harry laughs in a hollow, false sort of way and manages to say, ‘That was mean.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘It’s not. I’m turning into one of them, aren’t I?’ Zayn gives what he hopes is a bashful, self-deprecating smile. Harry stares stonily back at him. ‘You know, the other day I went to watch the rowing in, like, an un-ironic way. I sat on the grass and actually watched the rowing.’

Zayn laughs. Harry doesn’t.

‘How very Cambridge of you,’ he replies, monotone.

Zayn lets that lie there between them like a bad smell. He knows it, and Harry knows it too. The list of things they have to say to each other are starting to dwindle, and it hits Zayn like a basketball to the stomach.

He tries to think of something to say, _desperately_ , but nothing comes to mind. 

He thinks of the way Harry always listens to him, so careful and concentrated, a small smile on his face like Zayn’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen, and _God_ , he hates himself. He couldn’t be any more of a prick if he tried.

Harry, the nicer, better, more competent of the two, clears his throat. ‘Well,’ Harry says, scrambling to pick up the proverbial basketball, bending back an arm and lobbing it as far away as he can. ‘I have a question.’

Zayn pats at Harry’s hand that’s found its uncertain way back to Zayn’s leg. ‘Go on.’

‘Do you think,’ Harry says slowly, his fingers scratching tentatively over Zayn’s jeans, ‘you’ve worked out who you like?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well like, obviously I’ve slept with both,’ Harry says matter-of-factly, but he looks down at the table as though he’s embarrassed. Zayn swallows and glances back over at Huw Edwards on the telly, trying to stop his face from falling. ‘But I don’t know. I would only want to be with a guy long-term, I think.’

‘Oh,’ Zayn says, ignoring the implication of this. ‘How come?’

Harry smiles and shakes his head. ‘I think I like girls too much. It’s just the three of us, me, Mum and Gem, you know. I couldn’t stand to ever make a girl cry.’

Zayn feels very strange, a bit hollow and wobbly. ‘What makes you think you wouldn’t make a boy cry?’ he hears himself asking, and, _Christ_ , is he flirting?

Harry blinks at him, frowning a bit. ‘Um,’ is all he says, and Zayn abruptly feels an idiot.

‘Well you don’t have to make your mind up right now, anyway,’ Zayn says quickly, grasping for his glass just for something to do with his hands.

‘True. You know, I feel like I’m just – I’m sexually attracted to _everyone_ , all the time,’ Harry says with a laugh. Zayn stares at him sharply. His lips are damp from the condensation on the side of his glass, glistening and pink. ‘Sometimes at uni I actually thought I was going mad. I’d stare at someone’s neck too long in my lecture and I was hard.’

‘That’s called being a teenager,’ Zayn dismisses, rolling his eyes, but Harry’s cautious hand on his leg suddenly feels very far away.

‘Maybe,’ Harry says with a shrug, slipping even closer if that’s possible, his foot hooking around Zayn’s. ‘So what about you?’

‘I’m… I don’t know. I don’t really care. I like who I like.’

‘And who do you like?’

Zayn gulps, his ears ringing with the sound of Harry’s heart tearing in two. ‘I don’t really like anyone all that much right now.’

Manfully, Harry doesn’t even flinch. ‘Do you not get like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like… I could shag anyone, right now. Like you want everyone at once.’

Zayn looks at him, the swell of his lower lip, the line of his cheekbones, the mole by his mouth, the light freckles dotted over his nose. Zayn counted them once, a long time ago, kissed all of them and pressed his face into Harry’s collarbone and said a silent prayer that they’d never lose each other.

He looks at Harry’s carmine mouth and thinks about after uni, when he can have Harry for real, in bed with him on Sunday afternoons and birthday mornings and every single night. He thinks of holding his hand and picking out paint swatches together in Homebase, of cooking food for his family together when they come to visit, of sewing up the holes in Harry’s jeans and watching the football naked with a Corona on a Saturday.

It’s like pulling out a splinter and all of his blood draining from the tiny, almost invisible hole, that feeling Zayn gets then. He always tries to ignore it, to bury and squash and forget it, that wave of affection and excitement and pure _hope_ he gets when he thinks about Harry, about what they could do when Zayn’s finally out of this cycle of apprehension that’s made him so bitter, so angry and tired, but he wants it more than anything. Zayn’s got more ambition, more drive, than anyone he knows, but he wants Harry more than he’s ever wanted anything. He wants him so badly his actual bones ache with it, marrow-deep growing pains that don’t ever go away.

_After uni, after uni, after uni._

‘Do you want to go back?’ he asks.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn’s hand is on Harry’s back as he steers him out of the pub. Harry trips over the leg of his chair, stumbling and making a little _‘ooft!’_ noise, but Zayn pretends not to notice because having a laugh at Harry’s expense would most definitely kill the mood. And really, that’s probably the nicest thing he’s done all day.

And then they’re outside, and Zayn’s back’s against cold brick, and Harry’s everywhere, kissing and licking and biting at his mouth like he needs Zayn to breathe, both of his hands pressed against Zayn’s cheeks. His entire weight is on Zayn, crushing him against the brick wall, but his mouth is so wet, so hot, and it makes Zayn want to be flattened. He groans and palms at Harry’s arse through his jeans, biting Harry’s lower lip so hard he almost feels it swell under his teeth, blooming enthusiastically like he’s been punched. Harry groans, tongue curling over Zayn’s upper lip, and Zayn feels like he’s dying, heart throbbing like a bruise.

‘Want you,’ Harry breathes into his mouth, and it tastes like beer and Zayn’s reminded that Harry’s probably more than halfway to smashed, that maybe this isn’t a good idea. He feels like maybe he should try and pull away, but then Harry licks over his lips, yanks at Zayn’s hair, and the thought magically disintegrates as quickly as it appeared.

Two old men stumble from the pub and nearly bump straight into them, both of them coughing in disgusted alarm before tutting, and Zayn remembers that this doesn’t happen often around here, boys kissing on the street. He pulls away from Harry’s mouth and cowers into him instinctively, cheeks flushing, but Harry turns and snarls at the pair of them to fuck off, chin raised, voice loud and unwavering. It makes Zayn momentarily, cripplingly sad, the difference between them, before Harry takes his hand and tugs him away.

They stumble back along the cobbled streets to Zayn’s college, stopping every now and then to kiss rabidly, yanking at each other’s hair and grabbing at each other’s dicks through their jeans. At one point, Zayn thinks he has Harry shoved up against a lamppost, kissing him and grinding against Harry’s thigh until his lungs are burning and he has to rest his forehead against Harry’s cheek instead, heavy breath curling around Harry’s mouth.

When they finally make it back to Zayn’s college he can barely get the key in the door because Harry slides his hands under Zayn’s hoodie, fingers slotting firmly over his ribcage, mouth open against Zayn’s neck. His fingers slide up his chest and then down again, framing his hips, squeezing, and it makes Zayn shiver, his fingers shaking as he twists the key in the lock, and then they’re inside and clawing at each other in the darkness, every noise they make shockingly, obscenely loud in the hollow little room.

Zayn shoves Harry against the wardrobe, hard enough that the whole thing rattles, and Harry has to curl his fingers around the edges to make sure he doesn’t fall over. Just enough fragile silver moonlight has snaked its way through the gaps in Zayn’s curtains, and Harry’s face is illuminated in bits and pieces: a section of cheekbone here, a portion of lip there, a tiny fragment of eyebrow. His eyes are all glassy and unfocussed with how turned on he is, sweeping rabidly over Zayn, and his hair is sticking up in every direction, one thick strand flopping over his forehead and grazing his eyelashes. Zayn stares at him for a moment and thinks he looks like someone out of those old paintings hung in the dining hall, leaning against a sword and staring, stony faced, at the painter. He nearly tells him, but then Harry’s chest is heaving, fingers clutching at the wardrobe, eyes dark, and Zayn doesn’t want to look an idiot.

Instead he crosses the room and kisses him again, sagging forward into Harry’s bare chest the moment he’s made him pull off his t-shirt. He twists his fingers in Harry’s hair and bites a wet mark into his neck, but even with the insane rhythm of his blood, nothing prepares him for Harry saying, ‘I want you so fucking much, Zayn,’ voice rough and soft at the same time, a gentle sandpaper scratch that scrapes over Zayn’s heart.

Zayn swallows, pulse racing, and then without meaning to, says ‘Oh, Harry’ and just gathers him into a hug. Zayn squeezes him tightly, his eyelashes tickling Harry’s neck, and it’s so strangely intimate given what they’re about to do that Harry seems too taken aback to reciprocate. He just stands there, arms hanging limply at his sides, as Zayn holds him and hopes everything he can’t say translates in the sweet, single kiss he presses onto Harry’s cheek, fingers digging hard into his back, before dropping to his knees in front of him.

Harry’s clinging to the wardrobe like it’s that bloody door in _Titanic_ , breathing loud and hard as Zayn peels off his jeans inch by inch, bites at Harry’s thigh, thumbs at the outline of his dick through his pants. He lets out a breathy laugh when Zayn has to sit back and tug to get them past his ankles, and he lobs them along with his socks unceremoniously into the corner, shooting Harry an unimpressed look.

And then there’s only one thing left. Zayn’s a bit scared when he tugs down Harry’s underwear, his heart throbbing loudly in his ears like he’s driving through a tunnel with the windows down. It’s just that he hasn’t done this in a while, is all. He’s scared that Harry’s had much better in all his university hook-ups, and what if blowing someone isn’t like riding a bike and he’s completely forgotten how to? He remembers when they first started fucking around two summers ago, how they used to wince when they accidentally scraped each other with their teeth, and his heart flinches.

He glances up at Harry as though he might offer some assistance but he’s just looking down at him patiently, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes all faraway and heavy lidded, so Zayn has nothing else to do but stares nervously at the wet tip of Harry’s dick. He has flashbacks of stealing Doniya’s _Cosmo_ when he was sixteen and reading the blowjob tips in the dark of his bedroom, frowning at the page in confusion because most of them didn’t seem very practical. _Coat on some red lipstick before you get down to it – the kiss marks around his special area guaranteed to turn him on!_ Zayn wouldn’t put on make up even if it was Brad fucking Pitt who wanted his dick sucked.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry croaks, curving a hand around Zayn’s jaw. Weirdly, Zayn had almost forgotten he’s there, and he nods fiercely, frowning with intense determination as he bats Harry’s hand away. _Just bite the bloody bullet_ , he thinks, and with a deep breath through his nose he gets a hold of Harry’s hip, leans forward, and –

 _‘Oh,’_ Harry breathes, grasping the wardrobe again as Zayn sucks him down and presses into Harry’s waist so hard he feels imminent bruises bloom under his fingertips. He looks up at him through a dark sweep of eyelashes and watches as Harry’s own eyelids flutter, mouth opening and then closing silently, pink lips forming over words that he doesn’t manage say.

Almost immediately Zayn’s jaw starts to hurt and his knees start to ache, but it’s fucking hot watching Harry get like this, the flush creeping up his neck, the way his stomach tenses when Zayn slowly, deliberately swirls his tongue. He pulls off and mouths at the side of his cock wetly, and his heart twists itself into a knot when Harry shudders and grits his teeth, head flopping back with a thump against the wardrobe.

‘Ow,’ he huffs absently. For a moment it’s awkward and Zayn laughs, hiding his face in Harry’s hip as he replaces his mouth with his fist, working it fast and squeezing just a bit too tightly.

‘You’re breathing so hard,’ Zayn says with a grin, sponging kisses over the v of muscle on Harry’s hip.

‘Sorry,’ Harry exhales, gripping at the wardrobe harder. Zayn pulls back and attempts to smile reassuringly at him, but Harry’s eyes are closed and his toes are curling against the floor and it’s so hot that Zayn lurches forward and takes him back inside the wet cave of his mouth eagerly. A grunt pushes out of Harry’s slack mouth and it fucking _detonates_ something inside Zayn, blood roaring, his own hips jerking forward to meet nothing.

From a whole, long summer of practise, Zayn knows exactly how Harry likes it – tight and unrelenting, so much it errs on just the right side of painful. He doesn’t like it sloppy or slow; a dragged out, pornographic kind of affair, the kind of thing Zayn likes. Harry likes having the orgasm ripped out of him, quick and fast, and Zayn’s fine with that. He’s sure he’ll never go down on someone else like this, with such inexorable enthusiasm, for the rest of his whole life, and the signs that Harry’s orgasm is fast approaching only spur him on, the way he wheezes and inches forward onto his toes, his breathing getting heavier and heavier, the way his nails scratch desperately against the wardrobe, searching for purchase.

But even so – even though he can feel Harry’s close – he can’t help himself.

‘Did you miss this?’ Zayn says, pulling off again, his lips spit-wet and red. He presses Harry’s wet cock against his stomach to mouth at his balls, and Harry makes an inhuman sort of noise, head flopping forward.

Zayn pinches his thigh. ‘Tell me.’

‘Yeah, I did,’ Harry chokes, and it sounds like it’s cutting his mouth open to say it. ‘Ugh, keep doing that.’

‘How much?’

‘Zayn –’

‘Please tell me.’

‘All the time,’ Harry pants, groaning when Zayn does as he’s told, hand pumping him fast at the same time. ‘I think about you… all the time.’

‘How much?’

‘Always, Zayn, fuck, always. You know I do.’ It’s so cruel, what Zayn’s doing. He’s going to remember this forever, as long as he’s alive, the way Harry’s voice cracks over his name. It’s cruel to the both of them, and it makes itchy tears spring in the back of their eyes. ‘Please –’

‘Even when you were with other people?’ Zayn presses. He looks up at Harry desperately, hand stilling, mouth wet and parted.

‘I – uh, fuck, just … please, your mouth –’ Harry gasps, rocking his hips forward so his cock smudges against Zayn’s lips. Zayn pushes him so hard he goes crashing back into the wardrobe, and then there’s distance between them.

‘Wait,’ Zayn says, authority springing within him from nowhere and surprising them both.

Harry obliges, swallowing hard, pressed so flush to the wardrobe it’s like he’s bound there by glue. He looks so sweet, chest pink and heaving, terrified to move in case he somehow fucks this up, that Zayn feels the ache between his legs grow even heavier, straining against his boxers.

Zayn stares at him with drooping eyelids, licking his lips. One hand snakes down inside his own jeans, and Harry visibly bites the inside of his cheeks.

‘Do you think about me?’ Harry asks as he watches him, and his eyes widen like he’s scared of the answer.

Zayn can’t even pretend to hesitate. ‘You have no idea.’

‘What does that mean?’

Zayn swipes his thumb over the head of his cock and his eyelids flutter. ‘If you knew, you’d fucking _laugh.’_

He can almost hear Harry’s heart breaking. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and reaches for himself, and Zayn slaps his arm away. ‘I said wait, Harry.’ Harry gulps, watching helplessly as Zayn’s head tilts back to expose the flimsy skin of his throat, fist working faster. ‘God, I want you so bad, babe.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Always.’

‘Y-yeah? D’ya – d’ya want me to fuck you?’

The way he says it – his voice so deep and scratchy – makes Zayn groan, ‘ _Fuck_ , yeah.’

He strokes a soft, shaking hand through Zayn’s hair. ‘I want it. Missed it.’

Zayn gulps. ‘Me too. So much.’

‘I’m here, you know,’ Harry splutters, hope filling his voice up like helium in a balloon. Zayn’s head bows slightly, his hair falling over his eyes, because he can’t look at him or he’ll cry. The worn out, overly familiar mantra churns through his brain like a prayer – _it’s not the right time, so much work, so much stress, so much distance, so much he can’t deal with right now, after uni, after uni, after uni_ – ‘You can – you can ring me, or I can come visit. We don’t… it doesn’t have to be like –’

Zayn’s lower lip falls from the bite of his teeth. ‘Don’t,’ is all he says.

And then he swallows Harry back down so suddenly Harry nearly falls over.

Harry grabs at the wardrobe so hard his knuckles turn white, skin straining over bone. He’s practically on his tiptoes, clawing at the wardrobe and breathing with such jagged force Zayn’s sure George next door must be able to hear. The thought makes Zayn moan around Harry’s dick, and with his free hand he tugs at Harry’s arm, yanking it away from the wardrobe and pressing it into his hair.

It takes a moment for Harry to catch on, but when he finally does and pulls at a fistful of Zayn’s hair, sharply enough that Zayn’s scalp prickles, the high-pitched noise Zayn makes pushes Harry over the edge. He comes without warning down Zayn’s throat, and it’s so unexpected that Zayn nearly chokes on it.

Harry’s knees wobble, coughing out something that sounds an awful lot like Zayn’s name, but then, that could be wishful thinking.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

It’s not often he gets to see Harry like this anymore, spread out on white sheets below Zayn with his pale skin damp and flushed, cheeks bitten red like he’s been out in the snow, eyelids heavy and chest rising and falling in a fast, jagged rhythm.

Zayn strokes his fingers lightly over Harry’s hot cheek, outlining the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and Harry turns to press his face into Zayn’s hand, his nose brushing against Zayn’s palm. Zayn runs his thumb across his wet mouth, tracing his bottom lip, the tiny acute angles at the corners, the curve of his Cupid’s bow.

Something coils with thorny sharpness around Zayn’s heart, and it’s only when Harry’s lips curve up into a tiny smile under Zayn’s fingers that he realises it’s happiness. He hasn’t felt blissful, uncomplicated happiness like this in such a long time, and it hits him like he’s been run over by it, ploughing into him.

Zayn pushes Harry’s hair back from his forehead and tries to tattoo this into his memory; the colour of Harry’s eyes when his eyelids finally lift, the tiny dimple teasing in his cheek, the way his nose wiggles when he smiles properly.

Something tells him that nothing in the world will ever make him feel like this. That he should savour it while he can.

As though he can hear what Zayn’s thinking, Harry smiles and mumbles, ‘You’re a sap, Malik,’ his voice deep and slow. Zayn flushes with embarrassment and draws back, hands pulling away from Harry’s face, but Harry grabs at his thigh and doesn’t let him. He pulls him closer until Zayn’s lying right on top of him and then presses his face into Zayn’s neck, arms locking firmly behind Zayn’s back like Zayn might try and wriggle away.

And it’s true, as he buries himself in Harry’s hair and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, that he’s a sap, a huge massive fucking sap. He’s not had a chance to fall in love with anyone else, but he fell in love with Harry so quickly, and it only seems to get stronger every time he sees him, the feeling getting bigger and bigger like the snowballs he used to roll around the garden with glove-covered hands on freezing January mornings. When people talk about falling in love it sounds as though it only happens once, one big, long plummet that eventually promises to hit the ground. But Zayn falls more and more in love all the time, hurtling ceaselessly through a big black hole of adoration he’ll never be able to escape. And he’s not sure he really wants to, either.

He loves harder and faster and better than anyone he knows. He’s been like this since he was little, all the toys he loved within a day, taking them everywhere – school, the park, the bath, the dinner table – until they fell to bits. After that it was animals, every single one without exception, even the scary ones behind cages at the zoo. He’d stare at them with wide, bright eyes, stroking the glass and whispering secrets he didn’t want to share with anyone else, until someone eventually tugged him away.

‘Harry,’ he says into his hair, for no reason other than he likes the way it sounds when it’s muffled by Harry’s skin and the sound of Harry breathing. Harry pushes Zayn lightly away from his shoulder and then smiles delicately, pulling him forward with a hand curved around the nape of his neck, sucking Zayn’s bottom lip.

They kiss slowly, deeply, their mouths open and breath hot. Harry’s fingers trail across Zayn’s cheek, down his neck and along the bumps of his spine, just feeling him like they have all the time in the world. Except they don’t, and they both know it, and it makes Zayn go from happy to terrified in a single breath.

They’ve had giggly mornings under the duvet followed by piss poor attempts to make a fry-up in Harry’s kitchen, usually marred by a coquettish, handsy flirtation that often meant the eggy bread burned while Harry licked his way into Zayn’s mouth up against the fridge door. They’ve had long afternoons spent on the green outside Harry’s house, riding their bikes round and round, lying on the grass with their fingers twisted together and talking, sharing childhood memories and long-contained secrets. They’ve had quiet evenings pressed together on the sofa, Zayn’s skinny legs swamped in a pair of Harry’s sweatpants as they watch a film with Gemma and Anne, the two of them loyally pretending not to notice Harry and Zayn’s whispering, the clandestine glances, the hands curved over each other’s thighs.

They’ve had all that, even though it’s been a whole year since they last allowed themselves to do it. Sometimes the reminder of it nearly breaks him in two, but now, lying on top of Harry and kissing him slowly in his uni bed, Zayn thinks this is all right, as well. He doesn’t mind this at all, even though he knows he’ll have to escape somewhere as soon as Harry’s asleep because he can’t bear to wake up next to him and have to pretend that they’re not both splintering, scratching at each other’s hearts with blunt fingernails. He can’t smile over a fry-up and a cup of tea tomorrow morning and send Harry away like it doesn’t take everything Zayn has not to throw himself at Harry’s back and beg him to take him home. He’ll sit somewhere in the dark and wait for as long as it takes until he’s sure Harry’s gone.  
‘You know,’ Harry says quietly when they pull apart, his fingers curling around Zayn’s waist, and he looks pained, almost. His breath fans hotly over Zayn’s mouth as he says, ‘I’d do anything in the world to be like we were before.’

Zayn blinks at him, and has to swallow down a wad of sadness that jams up his throat. ‘We can’t,’ he says, for what feels like the millionth time.

Harry’s eyes go cloudy as he ducks his head, so Zayn forces himself to add, ‘It’s just – I’m not who I was before. I don’t feel like I’m the same anymore.’

Harry can’t look at him. ‘What about me, though?’ he asks, voice small. ‘Do I matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Does it matter how I feel?’

Zayn licks his lips. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks, and he regrets it immediately. He wants to put his hands over his ears and pull the duvet over his head and play some awful screamo on repeat so he doesn’t have to hear it.

‘I feel…’ Harry starts slowly, before trailing off. Zayn shifts so that he’s no longer on top of Harry and they lie like that for a while, in silence, the air cooling around them. ‘I feel like I’m about to go travelling and have the time of my life and I’m not even excited because I want to do it with you.’ Zayn squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is wheezing, gasping, sobbing in his chest. ‘I feel like I sit in my room at uni and I go out and I get with someone and I come home and I do it all over again and all I want is you. All that time. That’s how I feel.’

It’s not _I love you_ , but it’s worse. It’s so Harry to lay himself out there like that, to jump in the way that Zayn won’t ever do again, because it ruined him the first time he tried and there’s not enough of himself left to give anymore. It’s simpler and it’s warmer and it’s better than _I love you_ , and it kicks open Zayn’s ribs like a bailiff and tears everything down.

‘Does that not matter, Zayn?’ Harry asks when Zayn doesn’t reply, and he sounds an awful lot like he’s been beaten.

‘Of course it does.’

‘Does it change anything?’

Zayn closes his eyes again. ‘No,’ he whispers.

 

 

**__**

**_I’m feeling so proud, so without a doubt_  
Monday, April 1st 2014**

****

 

****

 

****

Manchester is big and unfamiliar, and Zayn gets lost on the way to the theatre, confused by all the different buses and long, unrelenting streets and lack of legible signage. After wandering around the same street corner three times, tripping over his undone laces and dropping his phone into the gutter, he caves and hails a cab. He’s bad with directions at the best of times, but admittedly the nerves and the way they’re scrambling his brain up into mush probably don’t help.

He hasn’t seen Harry for a whole year. The last time they saw each other was that absolute train wreck of a weekend in Cambridge, when Harry came to visit him last March. The last memory he has of Harry is leaving him alone in bed at some ungodly time in the morning and hiding in the empty dining hall until he was sure he was gone.

Less than a month later, Harry went off travelling with his friend Niall from uni. The pair of them caught a cheap flight out to Amsterdam and didn’t come back for a year, travelling all the way around Europe, and then to pockets of Asia too, funded by the student loan they only needed for six months.

Harry’s lived a carefree, nomadic year, letting his hair grow long and his skin brown, the kind of year Zayn could only dream about. Whenever Harry managed to stumble across Wi-Fi, pictures popped up on Facebook of him sitting cross-legged on a random mountain in Slovenia, or sipping beer on a boat floating on the Med, or leaning artfully against an old Greek ruin with a smirk that Zayn would actually sell his kidneys to see again. He nearly cried over a picture Harry uploaded of himself in Thailand, tanned and grinning and shirtless on a beach, yielding a cocktail like a trophy.

By almost comical contrast, it has become a truth that Zayn Malik sleeps little, eats poorly, exercises rarely, and smokes a lot. He’s taken up a new habit, which is binge watching series on Netflix when he can’t sleep at 3am, and then spending the whole day bleary eyed and hating himself. He’s often too behind on work to go to dinner, so he’s been living off a diet of Doritos, chewing gum and Red Bull for at least two months now. He’s thinner than he’s ever been in his life, which is saying a lot seeing as Louis’ favourite joke used to be calling him Slim Zaynie and blasting Eminem whenever he walked into a room.

Every essay he’s ever submitted he’s hated, and every exam he’s taken he’s worried about for weeks, to the point where he can’t bear to read the result once it’s handed to him. No matter how many times his tutors boom at him to have more confidence, he’ll never stop the shaking fingers, the crippling dread, the endless sleepless nights tossing and turning.

At twenty-one, Zayn feels self-aware enough now to admit that for the past three years, and for the first time in his life, he’s been lonely. It’s a fact he’s tried to ignore, shutting the curtains on it like unwanted daylight and burrowing back under the duvet. He’s lied about it to everyone who saw its creeping advances, that dark, uncomfortable, ugly monster that hurts too much to acknowledge out loud: unhappiness. His parents, his sisters, Harry, they all knew, but Zayn refused to give into them, because that would be admitting defeat.

He feels like he should be strong; he made it to Cambridge against all the odds, he made his family proud, he did better than all his friends and classmates and relatives. But the truth is, he can’t _stand_ Cambridge and he’s so, so lonely that he often imagines leaving, throwing all his lecture notes out of the window and running all the way back home, crawling under his parents’ duvet and never getting out again. He feels like parts of him die everyday, lights going out one by one like a block of flats, and he’s scared one day he’ll wake up and the whole of him will be dark, and he’ll look in the mirror and not be able to see himself at all.

So whenever Harry the Explorer found the time to check his emails, he’d find dozens from Zayn. Mostly Zayn’s emails were depressingly mundane, jazzed up with apostrophes in case Harry found him boring: _finished my essay at last !!!! Looking for jobs now aha; fun!,_ but all of them were such obvious displays of affection you’d have to be illiterate to not notice how desperate Zayn was for his reply.

Whether or not Harry actually read any one of Zayn’s dreary essays in full remains to be seen, as his maddening replies were short, hastily typed and often had Zayn muttering in annoyance: _went to the most amazing place today, you’d love it. It just had that vibe, you know? I could tell you’d like it here. Made me think of you._

Where, Harry? Where made you think of me?

He never properly responded to any of Zayn’s dull stories, either, or offered something that could escalate into a conversational back and forth between the two of them. Zayn finished each email with the distinctive sensation that Harry had managed to snag the last word, emerging triumphant in an electronic competition Zayn wasn’t aware they were meant to be having. Still, every reply made it into Zayn’s favourites, only one step away from printing them off and framing them by his bedside.

Maybe today they can make up for lost time. Maybe he can tug Harry into a bathroom somewhere and give him a welcome home blowjob, maybe he can throw himself onto Harry’s lap and just stare at him for hours, maybe he can finally tell him all the things he’s been thinking about for years, that dream life after uni, their own place somewhere, a proper adult relationship, holding hands in the supermarket and bickering over semi- or skimmed milk.

The cab drops him off at the theatre, and Zayn takes a deep breath.

 

 

+++

 

 

‘You made it!’ Eleanor yells when Zayn arrives, slapping Zayn on various parts of his torso. He’s half confused to see her, given that Louis spent most of their adolescence following her around and she never once spared him more than a scathing look and a raise of her perfect eyebrows. ‘Good to see you, bro.’

‘And you,’ Zayn says with a genuine smile, his cheeks straining with the effort. It’s an unseasonably hot day for April, so hot that Eleanor smells faintly of sweat beneath the familiar perfume when Zayn pulls her into a one-sided sort of hug. She lets herself be clung to for all of five seconds before elbowing Zayn off inelegantly and dragging him over to the bar in the foyer.

‘How’s Cambridge, then?’

‘’s all right,’ Zayn mumbles noncommittally. ‘And Manchester?’

‘Oh, so fun! Loving it.'

Zayn nods and tries to smile. Seeing as it's a few short weeks until his final exams, the best use of Zayn's time would undoubtedly be revising at home, getting some much needed rest, perhaps even engaging in some stress busting exercise if he has a momentary rewiring of his personality. Nonetheless he's here, for Louis, because he's a good friend. Or more aptly, because he's been quite a bad friend, and now is his chance to prove himself.

Louis’ spent the best part of three years in a state of constant disapproval towards Zayn; firstly for breaking up with Harry on his birthday – _‘I mean, you could have bloody waited, man’_ – then for stringing Harry along the following summer, and then finally, for the sulking and self-pity once Harry left. _‘I don't know why I put up with you,’_ Louis snapped on multiple occasions, when Zayn was too distracted to play FIFA adequately, or stopped listening during one of Louis' long soliloquies about how difficult it was trying to be an actor, how doomed the rest of his life would be, and how this somehow managed to always loop back to Eleanor, who is just so put together, so driven and clever and perfect.

It doesn't help that Eleanor, as Harry's closest friend in his year at college, joined Louis in berating Zayn for sleeping with Harry for a year after breaking up with him. 'You know you're an incredibly selfish person, Zayn' she pointed out whenever the opportunity arose, with a grown up and self-important swish of her excellent hair, ignoring Zayn's attempts to explain himself. 'Save it okay? Are you aware he's in love with you, and you still lead him on like this? Or are you just that clueless? You think we don't know that you sneak back home after you've fucked him? How do you think that makes him feel? It makes him feel cheap, that's what it does. Makes him feel worthless. And I know this because I care about other people, Zayn. I can acknowledge other people have feelings that extend beyond whether or not they wouldn't mind putting their dick in you.' The pair of them, an insatiable fountain of frustration and irritation, spurting Zayn with self-righteousness and superiority, even though Louis' moral compass has been skewed since he was six and deliberately pushed his little sister head first down the biggest slide in Wacky Warehouse, and Eleanor, for all her pious knowledge of Zayn and Harry's love life, seems suspiciously clueless that Louis has fancied her since the first ever time they spoke in 2005.

He blinks at her now, watching her tap away at her mobile and smile secretively at the screen. ‘There’s been a prop disaster, apparently,’ El tells Zayn without looking at him, ‘so your lateness doesn’t matter. Something to do with a rubber chicken, if Lou’s texts are anything to go by.’

Zayn laughs because he feels like he’s meant to and wonders how on earth all these students deal with the pressure of performing in front of all their loved ones _as well as_ their examiners. If Zayn were a drama student, he wouldn’t ever get out of bed.

‘Is Lou nervous?’ he asks her. He has a flashback of the time Harry brought her along to the outdoor lido a few summers ago and she wore a red swimming costume with strawberries on it. Louis’ never been able to get over the fact that El wasn’t impressed when he dive-bombed into the pool and caused a small tsunami, nearly drowning several small children and an innocent bystander who opened their mouth at the wrong moment and received a lung full of chlorine.

And now she’s here. On Louis’ final performance date. Weird.

‘Course not,’ she says with a strange, almost _proud_ grin. ‘Excited, more like. Especially to see Harry.’

_Harry._

Zayn’s mouth goes dry.

‘Where is he?’

Eleanor doesn’t appear to hear him, too wrapped up in her phone. Zayn nudges her.

‘What?’

‘Where’s Harry?’

‘Oh – there.’ She points vaguely toward the other end of the bar. Zayn can only see three men in identical duck-egg suits and buzz cuts, so he shuffles away from Eleanor, hands shoved nervously in his pockets as he rounds the blue-suited men, and then –

He’s there.

He’s taller, broader, face thinner and hair longer, skin golden and clear. He’s wearing a plaid shirt unbuttoned more than is probably necessary and brutally skinny jeans, and he’s sat casually at a small table by the bar, leaning back in his seat with his legs parted, a bottle of Corona resting against his thigh. His hair is held back by a green bandana thing, probably something he picked up on his travels, and it’s so ridiculous and embarrassing but Zayn _loves_ it, loves him, loves everything about him. His lip’s pulled between his teeth in concentration, eyes trained on someone sitting next to him, and _fuck_ , Zayn’s feet practically propel him forward, his heart racing, soaring, his nerves itching for him. He hasn’t felt this happy in _ages_ , maybe even years. Everything in him is poised and ready, wanting to bite and lick and grab at him, but also wanting to fold him up in his arms and never ever let go, a conflict of interest waging in the boxing ring of his ribcage.

It’s unreal how much he feels, all at once, and he can’t believe he didn’t allow himself to feel like this for two long, miserable years of his life, trying to shunt it aside because he felt like he couldn’t handle it. He wants to go back in time like Marty McFly and punch himself.

‘Harry,’ he croaks when he’s close enough, and Harry looks up at him immediately, eyes wide and bright and lit up with something Zayn wants to extract and mass produce until he can fucking jump into it, until he’s covered in it and glowing.

‘Zayn!’ Harry jumps to his feet, snatching Zayn up into a hug so tight it hurts, his fingers digging into Zayn’s ribs and his face pressed right into Zayn’s neck. ‘God, hi! Oh, I missed you so much!’

‘I missed you,’ Zayn mumbles, his voice horribly strangled. How is it possible that Harry smells _better_ , that his voice is deeper and his hands bigger and his eyelashes longer? Harry pushes Zayn away from him, holding him at arms’ length with a huge, rabbit-toothed smile splitting open his perfect awful horrible mouth, and Zayn feels the ground settle beneath him for the first time in a long time, the world righting itself again.

He opens his mouth to tell him, to say to Harry that he’s _so_ sorry for being such a dick, that Harry’s right about everything and that Zayn really _has_ been unhappy, that he should have admitted it years ago and let Harry come and visit him instead of shoving him away in the hope that it would make things better, and that he actually really fucking loves Harry and has done since he was sixteen and never wants to be apart from him ever again and would he maybe let Zayn just suck him off in the toilets, just quickly, because he’s been going fucking mad, actually, and he has some weird _primal_ urge to have Harry’s dick back in his mouth, as though that’s where it belongs.

But then Harry turns and grins at someone Zayn didn’t even notice, a man sitting in the seat beside his, also wearing an unbuttoned shirt and clutching a Corona, watching the pair of them with an unsure smile.

‘So,’ Harry says ceremoniously, ‘this is Zayn. Zayn, this is my boyfriend.’ He gestures towards the man and laughs when he gives a small, self-conscious wave.

And then the block of flats inside Zayn has a power cut and all the lights go off, not one by one but all at once, as the entire world comes crashing down around him.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Flat silence rolls out between them, as obnoxious and excruciating as if somebody had crowded in the centre of them and started screaming at the top of their lungs.

Zayn desperately tries to work out what to do with his face, attempting to smile and then abandoning ship when he realises he’s grimacing. Harry’s just watching him, half concerned and half bemused, eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisting, and Zayn can’t look at him. He glances over his shoulder for Eleanor, as though hoping she’ll produce some kind of assault rifle and just kill him now so he doesn’t have to deal with this.

‘Well, it’s so nice to meet you, Zayn,’ the man offers, standing up and thrusting a long hand in Zayn’s direction. Zayn stares at it, this lifeline he’s been thrown, this peace offering, and everything in him screams not to take it. ‘Harry’s told me so much about you.’

‘Has he?’ Zayn says faintly, taking his hand and shaking it more firmly than he needs to before dropping it hurriedly. He stares him up and down – the floral shirt, quiffed hair, jeans ripped at the knee – and feels a reassuring punch of hatred.

‘His name’s Nick, by the way,’ Harry offers when the man doesn’t, and then Nick laughs and mouths ‘oops’ and Harry rolls his eyes and they stare at each other and Zayn wants to die.

‘How did you two meet, then?’ Zayn hears himself saying.

Harry looks at Nick, giving a smile of encouragement. Zayn’s suddenly not sure why he asked.

‘We met in Ibiza,’ Nick says with a grin. It’s a friendly, self-deprecating kind of smile, a smile that engulfs most of his face, the skin by his eyes creasing and his wide mouth opening to expose a small gap between his teeth. Zayn scowls. ‘Harry was DJing.’

 _Harry DJs?_ He never mentioned that in the emails. He never mentioned having a boyfriend, either.

‘I dabbled,’ Harry says quickly at the sight of Zayn’s startled expression. He shakes his head modestly and snorts. ‘I basically just stood up there and alternated between David Guetta and Beyoncé all night.’

There’s pause for laughter which only Nick indulges in. Zayn looks between the two of them and feels like he’s being repeatedly hit with a car, the driver reversing and then slamming into him again and again and again.

‘You’re playing yourself down. You even slipped a bit of Sean Paul in at one point, I remember it well.’

‘Did I?’

‘And Outkast, do you remember? That went down well.’

‘With _you_. It went down well with you.’

‘Excuse me, nobody in the _world_ can resist Roses.’

Harry grins stupidly, _proudly_ , and fiddles with the hem of his shirt before seeming to remember that Zayn’s there. ‘Yeah, so I was DJing, and Nick was drunk, and then _I_ was drunk and we, um…’ 

He trails off, and Zayn takes from the matching flushes of embarrassment that whenever Harry finished his tryst into DJing, they must have hooked up. Zayn tries to stop himself from thinking of where it could have happened: in the club toilets, in an alleyway outside, in Harry’s hotel room, maybe even under the fucking DJ deck. Isn’t that just the kind of stupid, ostentatious, careless thing that Harry would _love?_ The fucking prick. 

Zayn loves him so much. He wants to cry. 

‘Then we didn’t see each other for ages,’ Nick continues, scrambling to pick up the ball Harry dropped. ‘I had to come home, ‘cos I was only in Ibiza on hols.’ _Hols. He says hols._ ‘I was working at my old job then, boring, admin-y, HR stuff.’ He flaps a hand dismissively, and Zayn feels like his voice is too loud for this bar, like it’s drilling right into Zayn’s temples. ‘But then I quit, got myself a new job but had to wait till the start date in October, so me and my mate Aimee decided to go out to Thailand for a bit, get some sun, you know. And who do we bump into?’ 

Zayn swallows, resisting the urge to snap _I don’t know, who did you bump into?_

‘It was so weird, wasn’t it?’ Harry says, far too excited by this anecdote than necessary, and Zayn wants to slap him. ‘He just popped up on the beach one day, and I couldn’t believe it. I was like to Niall, _‘that’s him, that’s him!’_ pointing at Nick and everything, but he didn’t believe me. Just so weird, isn’t it?’ 

‘Wow that’s just …’ Zayn starts, mouth grappling at words he isn’t allowed to say, ‘incredible, isn’t it, you know what I mean? Fuckingfatethatisitmustbefateinit,’ he manages incomprehensibly, clutching at the back of a chair because he’s starting to feel a bit faint. 

It’s just – the pictures of Harry on the beach in Thailand, new butterfly tattoo on display, skin golden brown and stomach toned, were probably taken by Nick. Zayn thinks about one photo in particular, of Harry lying under a patch of shade with his arms behind his head, torso stretched out and hair in his eyes, peeking at the camera through his eyelashes. He shamefully wanked to that picture so many times, furiously jacking off in his bed at Cambridge with his laptop burning his thighs, pulse racing as he tried to imagine Harry spread out like that on the bed beside him. 

He looks at the carpet, sweating feverishly under his shirt, and tries to ignore the itching behind his eyes. Time seems to ooze very slowly, especially because he knows Harry and Nick are probably exchanging a worried glance. How wonderful and couple-y that must be. 

‘Do you want a drink, Zayn?’ Harry asks slowly, his hand finding its way to the small of Zayn’s back, and Zayn has to resist the urge to melt into him. 

‘No, I’m fine.’ 

‘Sure?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘I’ll get you one anyway. You want a JD and Coke?' 

Zayn sniffs and nods, his heart doing something pathetic because Harry remembers his favourite drink, but then he reminds himself that friends are allowed to know things like that.

_Friends._

And then they’re alone. Zayn and The Boyfriend. 

‘Funny day for a final performance, don’t you think?’ Nick says conversationally. 

‘Is it,’ Zayn says flatly, recoiling away from him as though he might dash off, but Nick doesn’t seem to notice, sliding closer nonchalantly. 

‘April Fools Day,’ Nick says, and then, adopting a posh voice that Zayn assumes is meant to be an approximation of an examiner, ‘ _We’re afraid we’re going to have to fail you for having truly shit hair, all the best!_ ’ 

It’s not in the slightest bit funny, and Zayn doesn’t even bother to pretend it is. He scratches the back of his neck and looks away, suddenly furious. What kind of fucking joke is this, Harry leaving Zayn with his new boyfriend in the middle of a theatre, with nowhere to hide? It’s fucking cruel, actually, and for a moment Zayn allows himself to hate Harry for doing this, for finding someone else and leaving Zayn behind. 

Except that he knows, devastatingly, that this is all his fault. He thought Harry would always be there, waiting dutifully like a dog outside a shop, amusing himself pitifully with throwaway one-night stands before Zayn was ready to be with him for real. Harry was always available, picking up the phone to Zayn at any time of the day with the frantic urgency of the Samaritans, until one day he wasn’t. That’s what kills him, what spears him right through the stomach, crippling him. 

This could have been prevented. 

But then – a thought. It’s mad, it’s completely mad, but he turns to look at Nick, heart spasming with feeble hope. 

‘This isn’t – it’s not a joke, is it?’ he asks, eyes wide. Nick looks back at him and blinks, confused. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Cos it’s April Fools Day. It’s not…’ He trails off, waiting for Nick to catch his drift, and when he does, his face falls into one of such heart wrenching pity that Zayn can’t bear to look at him. 

‘Oh, Zayn,’ Nick says, squeezing his forearm in a gesture that’s meant to comfort but it makes Zayn want to cry. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Zayn snaps, snatching his arm away. He looks at the carpet again even though it’s blurring, all the little swirls blurring like they’re melting in afternoon sun, and all he can do is sniff with pathetic embarrassment and mumble, ‘Please don’t tell Harry I asked that.’ 

‘Of course not,’ Nick says earnestly, and Zayn suddenly decides he despises him, his jaunty quiff and stupid mouth and long gangly limbs. He’s too old for Harry, too old and too soon, too soon, too soon. Nick thinks he’s being nice, taking pity on the scrawny boy that Harry used to mess around with when he was younger, but all Nick’s done is made Zayn feel stupid. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Harry reappears at Zayn’s elbow, passing him a glass. ‘For you!’ Harry says in his stupid deep lovely horrible voice, smiling, and Zayn wants to smile back but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to smile again, so he buries his face in the glass instead and hopes ferociously to never resurface. 

  
  
  
  


  
+++

 

 

Maybe he should have seen this coming.

He’s always known Harry has this awful, vampiric need for adoration. That’s why he’s such a massive fucking show off, why he wants to be a musician and be a little bit famous – ‘small Wikipedia page famous’ – why it crushes him so much more than it should when people leave. He can’t stand someone wanting him one day and not wanting him the next. It’s why he’s always been friends with older people, because they’re not as flighty and noncommittal as people his own age. It’s all some clever twisted little barbed wire strategy, ensnaring people and not letting them go, and Zayn can see right through it like it’s made of glass.

He always knew Harry would go one of two ways, for all his excruciating overwhelmingness. Either he'd shun commitment, bury himself in someone for six months at a time, colonise them, let them drink him in thirstily and dilute their entire being with his strange, golden brightness, and then skip off once he gets bored. That’s what Zayn was always so scared of, with him. Of being dropped for something newer, shinier. He saw it sometimes, the way Harry was so extraordinarily nice to new people, the intense way he listens so carefully, sussing you out. How much he hated the dull anonymity of Zayn’s life at Cambridge. It strikes a horrible burning heat into the dark folds of his mind, but Zayn thinks now that maybe, he just got out before he was given up on.

Or – and this is the worse alternative – Harry'd listen to that little voice inside his head that reminds him that he needs approval, affection, adoration, to exist, that he always has done, and what better than leeching off someone just as much as they bleed you dry, the pair of you taking from each other like a business exchange. A partnership.

A relationship.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

The play drags on and on and on. Zayn’s forgotten who’s playing who and what the plot is and if Louis is meant to be doing that Cockney accent or not. Harry positioned himself in between Zayn and Nick when the three of them sat down, and he relaxes there now between the new and the old, the holiday romance and the childhood romance, the wanted and the cast aside. He and Nick chatted easily before curtain-up about things that were meant to be inane enough to engage Zayn – the weather, how nice the theatre’s architecture is, these seats are all right init? – but they felt deliberately esoteric and Zayn can’t stand it. He sits there, stiff and uncomfortable, eyes glued forward like one of those Covent Garden street performers who pretend to be statues for money.

The audience around him communally laughs at something – a joke Zayn’s missed, or maybe a mistake – and he glances around to try and work out if they’re celebrating or cringing, when his gaze lands on Harry’s lap. Or more, Nick’s hand in Harry’s lap, their fingers looped together.

And that – that’s it. He can practically hear the crack of his heart as it fractures irreparably.

He stands up so quickly when the lights go down that Harry jumps, but he doesn’t have time to worry about him. He needs to get out before he cries. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

He tries to swallow it down as he stumbles out of the aisle, past tutting mothers and a grandpa who looks suspiciously unconscious, the rising hysteria punching its way up from the depth of his stomach and squeezing though his insides. _Calm down_ , he tries to tell himself but he’s having trouble thinking reasonably, his second JD and Coke sloshing out of the plastic cup and cascading stickily over his clenched fingers. He feels like he’s about to go into an exam he hasn’t revised for, brain churning dangerously like it’s being stuffed in a blender. He feels like someone’s shoved him onto the stage and he doesn’t know any of his lines. He’s hurtling towards a crash that isn’t coming fast enough.

_Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

‘Zayn, wait!’

Zayn considers breaking into a sprint but he stops in the middle of the empty foyer, shoulders hunched defensively, and turns to see Harry following him, face pinched up with worry.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

Harry swallows and fiddles with his bandana, seeming to consider whether or not he should push Zayn for a more truthful answer. He closes the space between them, eyebrows drawn when he says, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Fresh air,’ Zayn grunts monosyllabically.

That familiar crease between his eyebrows is back and it makes Zayn’s impending breakdown loom closer. ‘You know, it’s been so good to see you.’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn rasps. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

‘Can’t believe it’s been a whole year. More than that.’

‘Yep.’

Harry’s eyes dart around the foyer, as though looking for an escape. ‘You’re back in Bradford for two weeks right? For Easter?’

‘Mmm.’

‘We should catch up, if you like? You could come over for tea. Like – like old times, yeah? My mum’s missed you, too. I’ll want to hear all about Cambridge.’

‘Okay.’

Harry nods and forces a smile on his face, but not a genuine one, not the one he gives Nick now. He’s run out of things to say. ‘I, um. Should go back. Don’t want to miss anything.’

He goes to leave, but suddenly, Zayn can’t watch him go.

‘Harry,’ Zayn breathes, reaching for him and grabbing a fistful of his shirt at the shoulder. He’s not even sure what he wanted to do – kiss him, maybe, or scream fuck you right into his mouth – but then Harry blinks at him, eyes sad and reluctant, like he’s expecting bad news. ‘I think you’re amazing, you know,’ is all Zayn manages to say, and he can’t remember a time he said anything with such conviction in his whole life.

The audience laughs again from inside the theatre and Harry stares at him, blinking and swallowing. They stand like that for a moment, and Zayn’s heart thumps with adrenaline, with hope, before Harry’s face remoulds into something harder, more guarded. ‘I know,’ Harry mumbles, shaking Zayn’s hand off and looking down at the floor. ‘I know I am.’

Zayn’s eyebrows pucker with surprise, and when Harry meets his gaze again, he seems to bridle at Zayn’s confusion.

‘I’m actually a pretty nice guy, Zayn. I – a lot of people think I’m fucking fab.’ Deep breath. ‘And so does Nick.’

_And why didn’t you?_

Harry turns and walks off, back to the play, back to his boyfriend, without a backward glance. Zayn stares after him for a moment, watching Harry disappear, the curve of his shoulders under his shirt, the soft curl of his hair, before turning on his heel and marching off down the foyer, shoes scuffing against the carpet, hands twitching at his sides.

Outside, cold air slaps Zayn in the face and he reels against it. He shoves his way past hoards of people, ignoring the grunts and curses of indignation, tripping over his own feet. He tries to get a cigarette out but his fingers are shaking and the packet vomits all the fags onto the pavement. Someone stops and stares at him as he bends to pick them up, a boy a few years older than him with glasses and a stupid hipster moustache, and Zayn straightens up and barks, ‘What the fuck are you bloody looking at?’ and feels a curl of satisfaction when he scurries off in alarm. It’s the smallest victory in the world, but right now, he’ll fucking take it.

And then he’s walking again, in a direction he’s not sure of, his legs weirdly numb as they carry him as far away from the theatre as they can. The sky is thick and starless, a heavy ink-black blanket that smothers the whole world and snatches the breath right out of Zayn’s lungs, and at the middle of it all is Nick’s hand on Harry’s leg. Their fingers boxed together. Resting against Harry’s thigh.

It takes a long time before Zayn realises he’s crying, crying harder than he has in a long time, tears dripping off the curve of his bottom lip and snot glistening on his cupid’s bow, chest heaving. He thinks of Harry lying on his bed at uni, that small little smile when Zayn stroked his face, the tiniest pull of his dimple in his cheek, and he cries harder.

Harry, white skin on whiter sheets, skin of his neck glistening with sweat as he fucked into Zayn, nails scratching against the brown wooden walls, tilting his head back and crying out. _Actually_ crying, afterwards, when he thought Zayn was asleep, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow and trying to swallow sobs that filled up the little brown room and made Zayn’s heart wilt far too quickly than it should ever do, like a dying flower filmed in Attenborough fast motion.

Zayn leaving him before he woke up, like he always does. Like he always _did._ Again and again and again.

He’s spluttering and gasping like he’s being choked, invisible hands closing violently around his throat, as three long years of suppressed emotion rush out of him in a fucking torrent. People stare at him, this weirdo stumbling through the streets of Manchester, but he can’t care. The whole world is upside down, his eyes sting, his heart is about to self-destruct, and all he can think of is Harry’s hair on Zayn’s pillow in Cambridge, and the look in Harry’s eye when he saw Zayn again, and Nick’s hand in Harry’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise there won't be any explicit detail of harry/nick if that is something that puts you off! and if you've managed to make it this far - the next chapters are (slightly) more light-hearted. :)


	2. comfortably numb

  
****

**_I can feel you_  
Friday, 1st May 2015 ******

 

 

The start of Zayn’s first summer in London is a lot like he expected it to be: busy, stuffy, a bit claustrophobic – like he’s been shut inside an oven, but in a weirdly nice way.

When he and Doniya first moved down to London in January, Zayn thought he’d never get used to it. Bradford didn’t shove like London, and Cambridge hardly moved at all. Everyone in London is going somewhere, walking with their eyes glued to their phones, guided with some prior knowledge of the city wired into them that Zayn still doesn’t have. But he loves it, the speed, the urgency, the anonymity, the confidence. He’s loved it since he and Louis came down as an after graduation treat in October, to visit Harry and to go to Comic Con. And he loves it now, on this very Friday as he battles his way down Woburn Place. He loves the smell in the air, petrol and rain and electricity static and something vaguely dirty. He loves the safety of it, the fact that you can walk in any direction and get to somewhere with a tube station. He loves all the traffic, the noise, the general air of irritation and frustration.

It’s a proactive place, anonymous and cursory, a huge mass of people who all want to be moving, squirming and darting like a school of fish, and it makes Zayn happy. He spent three years locked into his room, pallor and wan, stifling in his own stillness, feeling like every inch closer to his word count was somehow a step backwards. At times he felt like he might be in that room forever, waste away with his fingers rotting on his laptop keys like Miss Havisham in her wedding dress, but in London, he feels like he could do _anything_. He doesn’t feel examined anymore like a specimen shoved under a microscope, or monitored constantly like a contestant on Big Brother.

For the past five months he’s been working at the Brixton Morleys Topshop, a job secured for him by Niall Horan’s girlfriend – the ever generous hand of nepotism plays Zayn his first card – and he even loves that, methodically folding, organising, smiling at the girls who come in and giggle and pretend not to squeal when they catch sight of him.

Today, he’s allowed himself half an hour collateral time to find the building, anticipating lateness. At twenty-two, this is the kind of guy Zayn is now – organised, responsible, on time. He’s also That Guy who cycles to work, who cooks proper meals for himself, who reads books for pleasure before bed. The first weekend of every month he re-paints the walls in his bedroom white and then spray-paints over them with graffiti cans he buys for cheap down at the market, keeping the pot of paint in the corner in case the landlord announces he’s making a visit. He’s made friends, a boy called Liam who works in the Topshop stock room, and his girlfriend Sophia. He’s been slowly stripping and repainting the window frames for the old lady who lives in the flat below, because it bothers her and the landlord won’t get round to it. He phones his mum every Tuesday evening, he tries to limit himself to ten fags a day, he lets their flatmate Yasmin routinely shave the sides of his head, leaving the top long so he can tie it up in a ponytail when he wants it out of his face, or alternatively, flop over to one side. He plans ahead, sets goals, writes notes in calendar for things he can’t wait to do – _Mad Max_ comes out in fourteen days, and he plans to see it at least three times, once for general enjoyment, twice for critical scrutiny, a third for Tom Hardy.

London’s kind to him, and today it has the chance to be kinder. He stops in front of the ugly brown building, five floors of identical, worryingly tiny rectangular windows, a building that could easily masquerade as a high-security prison. It overlooks a square patch of grass though, Gordon Square, which isn’t actually square but oblong, and the imposing words ‘UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON INSTITUE OF ARCHAEOLOGY’ glint off a silver plaque, impressive and terrifying in equal measure.

Zayn turns his phone off and takes a deep breath. The routine check follows – he adjusts his collar, straightens his back, runs a hand across his cheek just in case his beard has suddenly grown back in the space of two hours. Reflexively, his hands twitch, craving a cigarette to calm him down, but he flexes his fingers and ignores it. Armed with a disappointing Third Class Degree from Cambridge, half-hearted enthusiasm (because really, at what point did Zayn decide to become an _office archaeologist?_ ), and a glowing reference from Topshop Brixton, Zayn takes the first step towards the rest of his life.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

__  
_‘Hello – hi! Hi. It’s me. Uh, Harry. It’s Harry. I’m just home and I – oh fuck! You’re in your interview, aren’t you? Is it going well? I hope it’s going well. I’m sure it is. You’ll ace it, Zayn, they’d be stupid not to love you._

_‘I’m just at home. If you want to come by later, that’d be nice. After the interview, I mean. Or I could meet you somewhere, if you’d prefer. I don’t know, anything. Work starts at six so I’m free till then… or I could come to yours? I know I wouldn’t mind a nice meal, I’ve been living off Niall’s shepherd’s pie for a week and I think it’s giving me scurvy._

_‘Anyway, call me back. I hope the interview went well! Ha, I already said that, didn’t I? I’m sure it did. It’d be really nice to see you, actually. I’ve been feeling – I dunno. I just… I dunno. I’ll explain when I see you. If I see you. Hope it went well. All right – bye.’  
_

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Harry lives with Niall in a cardboard box of a flat just off Whitechapel Road. It’s basically one straight line from Harry’s flat to Zayn’s in Brixton, but it’s two buses, the 133 and the 22, and it takes the best part of an hour. Zayn knows the route off by heart even though he’s made the journey less than ten times in six months.

Harry moved to London first, just before Zayn graduated last summer. He and Niall managed to scrape together enough for the rent deposit on the flat after Harry used up the last of his savings and very reluctantly made a phone call to Melbourne to borrow some money from his dad.

Nick lives in London too, which Zayn resolutely decides had absolutely no part in Harry’s enthusiasm about moving here. He has a job at a record label in London that Zayn doesn’t entirely understand and doesn’t really want to, but Zayn puts up with him because otherwise his time with Harry would be slashed by epic proportions and he can’t face that alternative. He stands awkwardly beside Nick at Niall and Harry’s gigs at pubs and bars across London, listening with intense jealousy to their wonderful relationship anecdotes, all the wild club nights and hangover brunches and drunken antics, and tries not to feel like a spare part.

But he’s here now, buzzing up to Harry’s flat only an hour and a half after his interview, hands shoved in his pockets, nails digging into his thighs.

_Accept the things you cannot change. Accept, admit defeat, move on._

The buzzer drones its acceptance and Zayn scales the three flights of steps to Harry’s flat with tentative uncertainty. Graffiti brightens otherwise dull, grey-speckled walls, and Zayn stops to admire it for a second. Someone’s sprayed an amazing black cat with huge, dinner-plate eyes that follow you eerily up the stairs, as though making sure you’re up to no good. Zayn wonders if Harry feels safe with her guarding him, and then reminds himself that these are the sort of weird, nerdy thoughts he ought to keep to himself.

Harry opens the door to his flat in sweatpants and an enormous t-shirt with Paul McCartney’s face on; the uniform of disaster. Half his hair is pulled up into a bun, the rest left to tangle past his shoulders, and it’s just entirely unfair and awful that he still looks nice, especially when his miserable expression melts into relief and he pulls Zayn into a hug.

‘Hey!’ Harry says with a poor attempt at chirpiness, squeezing Zayn’s waist. Zayn holds his breath, hugging Harry back stiffly so he doesn’t do something stupid, like bury his face into Harry’s neck and inhale him, or grab at his bum, or try and kiss him.

Not that Zayn thinks of Harry in that way anymore. Because they are Friends. Friends with a capital F. Best Friends. Best Friends who have very intimate knowledge of each other. Including what the other looks like naked.

Which becomes very easy to remember when Harry untangles himself and turns around and exposes his tiny, horrible arse to Zayn, the gentle curve of it very noticeable through his sweatpants. Zayn remains completely, entirely unbothered and tries not to stare at it like some sex-crazed maniac.

‘How was the interview?’ Harry asks over his shoulder, leaving Zayn to toe off his boots in the threshold, adding them to the the rubble of other discarded shoes.

‘It was good, actually! I’m feeling pretty positive about it.’

‘That’s brilliant!’

‘Third of the month, though. So I don’t know. We’ll see.’

‘Positivity, remember!’ Harry calls from the kitchen, which is also the living room, the dining room, and his bedroom. Four rooms squashed into one miniscule space, a grim snapshot of metropolitan life. If Harry were to contort himself hard enough in bed, he could do the washing up and turn the TV on simultaneously.

‘Yeah, I’m trying.’

‘And this is The Big One, yeah?’ Harry says over the sound of the kettle whistling.

‘Yeah,’ Zayn replies, and then swallows uneasily. He’s nervous, even though it’s just _Harry_ , his best friend. Just the two of them. Alone. In sight of Harry’s unmade bed.

‘You’re gonna be like, an actual archaeologist,’ Harry says, dead impressed. ‘Will you have a little brush? You know, to dust off bones and that?’

Zayn snorts. ‘I didn’t interview to be a Nicolas Cage tribute act, Harry.’

He goes to perch at the end of the bed and looks out of the window, down at an alleyway full of cavernous rubbish bins, a messy orphanage of cardboard boxes. There’s a plant on the windowsill, the pot passionately decorated with glitter and star stickers and sharpie. Zayn notices Harry has written VIOLA in swirly block caps across the rim. ‘Keep your fingers crossed for me, though?’ he adds, all casual and un-bothered, like it doesn’t matter at all.

‘I always do,’ Harry says, one of his throwaway comments that like to climb inside Zayn’s brain and carve a small crater by his temporal lobe. ‘Milk, yeah?’

‘Yep, and –’

‘Two sugars, I know.’

Another little hole in his brain appears. It’s only tea, for fuck’s sake, but one of Zayn’s best skills is making something out of nothing. He should have put that on his CV.

‘And how’s Topshop?’

‘Ah, the same, really. Hey, why have you named your plant Viola?’

Harry looks over at him with a frown, like it’s obvious. ‘She’s an African Violet.’

‘ _She_?’

‘Yes, Zayn, she.’

Zayn catches sight of his reflection in the window, grinning like Harry’s just spouted the fucking lottery numbers, and forces his face into a look of bored indifference.

Harry makes the short journey from the kitchen to the bed and hands Zayn his tea, clambering aboard his bed beside Zayn and twisting his legs awkwardly until he’s sat cross-legged, like a child in assembly. ‘It’s hot, make sure you blow it.’

‘Yes, _Mum_.’ Zayn drinks anyway, lets it scorch his tongue.

‘Someone’s gotta do Trisha’s job when she’s so far away.’

‘I live with three girls, one of whom is my sister. I get enough of that.’

‘Jealous of that, you know,’ Harry mumbles, eyes downcast. ‘Living with your sister, I mean. Like, Niall’s great. He has no sense of personal hygiene and he Maddy literally fuck, like, on the sofa, when I’m here in bed.’ Zayn snorts and Harry smiles feebly. ‘But he’s still great. But even so, it must be nice. Having a bit of home with you.’

Zayn frowns. Fresh from graduation, Doniya’s proposition that they move down to London together and in with two of Doniya’s old school friends had seemed a total blessing. But now, after months of living together, Zayn realises why living with your older sister and her mates is not something most twenty-two year olds indulge in. The fact that she moves _everything_ without asking, and always has an opinion on anything Zayn does, and seems not to have learned the concepts of personal space and privacy despite now being officially Old and An Adult, is the least of their problems.

Because God _forbid_ Zayn should ever bring someone back. The only person he’s hooked up with in a whole year was a girl in the toilet at one of Harry and Niall’s gigs, because he’d never hear the end of it if a stranger emerged from his bedroom the next morning, and he’s not a good enough liar to make up an excuse if he stayed somewhere else.

Sisters are infuriating, especially when you’re both in your twenties and she’s extinguishing any possibility of sex. It’s been so long, is the thing.

So long.

He stares at Harry’s mouth.

‘It’s all right,’ Zayn says dismissively. ‘We’ve never been as close as you and Gemma, though.’

Harry smiles crookedly against the rim of his mug. ‘Have you been smothered by oestrogen?’

‘Not yet. Oestrogen smells a lot nicer than this place, though,’ Zayn says, kicking up a foot to gesture at the room. The TV is on, providing atmospheric background noise to the tune of Loose Women. Dirty plates fester in the sink. A bunch of wires, tangling together like liquorice laces, sit menacingly in the corner, a gothic mob of guitar cases and amps and effects pedals.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ Harry says with a defeated sigh, his mouth drooping at the corners. ‘Haven’t got round to tidying up.’

‘And yet, you’re watching Loose Women mid-afternoon?’ Zayn tries teasingly, elbowing Harry and grinning. Harry just stares gloomily down at his lap, swirling his untouched tea around in the mug. Zayn nudges him again. ‘Hey, what’s the matter, H?’

Harry sniffs, puts his neglected mug of tea on the coffee table and lifts an arm to scratch the back of his neck. He spares once swift glance over at Zayn, embarrassed, and lets out a short breathy laugh before mumbling, ‘It’s stupid.’

Zayn frowns. ‘No it’s not.’

‘You don’t know what it is yet.’

‘I know it won’t be stupid, though.’

Harry gulps. ‘Secret for a secret?’

It’s something they used to do, before they started going out when they were younger. Whispered exchanges in the dark at their awful, stress-inducing sleepovers. Sometimes it was stupid things – _I cheated in my French oral exam_ for _I stole my sister’s phone charger and she still doesn’t know it was me_ – but a lot of the time it was more. Zayn will never forget swapping _Louis drunkenly said tonight that he’s in love with El_ for _Me and Francesca … we, um, had sex yesterday_. Harry didn’t even look at him as he said it, just stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, arms crossed over his chest. Zayn had to swallow about five million times before he was able to say _‘Was it good?’_. And even now, he can remember Harry pressing his face into the pillow and mumbling _yeah_ , like he wasn’t entirely sure. Or like he didn’t really want Zayn to hear.

‘Okay,’ Zayn breathes. There’s a small, tiny bubble in his chest, a little growth that is actually not tiny, it’s enormous, and – nope. No no no no no. That’s not allowed anymore. He presses his fingers around his still hot mug tightly, hoping he can scald sense into himself.

Harry’s lip curves up at the corner. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone?’

Zayn’s heart thrums with that suggestion of exclusivity, swelling smugly. There’s probably not that much space in there anymore, with all of this awful feeling blooming and clattering and howling behind his ribs. He bares his teeth in a smile. ‘Course.’

Harry picks at a hole in the ankle of his sweatpants, avoiding Zayn’s eyes. ‘I, um. I don’t know.’ Zayn blinks and waits patiently. ‘It’s just cos Niall and Nick both work in the day, and I only work evenings. I spend a lot of time on my own, you know? I’m not…’

‘Used to that,’ Zayn finishes for him. Harry can’t function without feeling the way the air changes when there’s more than one person breathing in it, without the energy of someone else being in the room. It’s not a secret that he doesn’t do well on his own. Harry likes to always be moving, doing something, going somewhere, but when you’re on your own there’s nobody to prove that you’ve done anything at all. Zayn isn’t entirely confident that Harry’s even spent a night sleeping in an empty bed since he turned eighteen.

But Nick’s busy, Niall’s busy with his job at a guitar shop in Marylebone, and Zayn knows Harry spends his days doing nothing, because there’s only so many times you can vow to take advantage of All the Great Free Things to do in London and run around Hyde Park, trying not to get mown down by tourists on Boris bikes, before you realise that you could be in any park in the entire world and it would look the same. Harry’s evenings are spent working at the Barfly in Camden, serving beers to teenagers and pretending not to watch the artists. The occasional gig with Niall when he gets a night off, at tiny pubs and bars both sides of the river. Nights out with Nick and his mates, very occasional dinners with Zayn, and back to work the next evening. And that – that’s about it.

Harry nods, tugs viciously at the hole in his sweatpants. ‘I just… feel lonely, sometimes. Like, really fucking horribly lonely. I don’t know.’

But he does know, and Zayn knows, because he felt like that for three years, the loud emptiness of being left with yourself, actually having to listen to all the ugly parts of your own mind that aren’t really supposed to be given audience. Harry looks over at Zayn, this time for longer, and in the dirty light slithering in through the window behind his bed, Harry looks almost ethereal, his eyelashes paling, his irises losing colour. He licks his lower lip and it glistens, and Zayn indulges himself for a second, lets himself imagine running his burnt tongue across Harry’s raspberry mouth, remind himself of how Harry tastes after two years without it.

‘It’s okay to feel lonely,’ Zayn says gently. ‘Everyone does, sometimes.’

‘Yeah, that’s true.’

‘It’ll be better when Gem moves down.’

‘I know. Not long to go.’

‘You just have to channel it. Not let it overwhelm you.’

Harry’s eyebrows draw together in thought before hesitantly asking, ‘Did it overwhelm _you_?’

‘At Cambridge?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Probably. Definitely. Doesn’t matter now.’

‘No, you’re right. Yeah. Doesn’t matter now.’

Zayn smiles as best he can, through the weird stabbing sensation in his chest. ‘I never gave you a secret back,’ he says, because it’s only fair.

Harry licks his lips and then smiles softly, reaching over to rearrange a stray strand of Zayn’s hair. ‘I think I’ll save it for another time.’

And Zayn wants to tell him the game doesn’t work like that, but then Harry’s hand is gone, and he can’t.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn makes Harry have a shower and he gets to work washing up all the dirty dishes while he’s in there, humming along contentedly to _Dark Side of the Moon_ , the vinyl that was already poised waiting in the player. The vinyl Zayn got Harry for his eighteenth birthday. He won’t dwell on it.

Except he will, for about a year. He will absolutely wake up in the middle of the night, stranded in the middle of the lonely island of his bed, and wonder why Harry was listening to _that_ album, the album they listened to constantly all summer in 2011 when their skin was bad and their limbs too long and their clothes too baggy, the album they vowed to tattoo on each other one day, the album that was on just before they had sex for the first time, before Harry switched it off and climbed into Zayn’s lap and peeled his t-shirt off him, slowly, as though revealing a surprise.

When Harry emerges with wet, dripping hair and clean, non-tragic clothing, the pair of them leave the depressing flat behind and wander out into the afternoon sunshine. Two old friends out for a casual walk. Nice and simple.

They stop off at a Co-Op to buy themselves some wine, but Harry gets distracted by a toddler waiting with her mum outside, crouching down to make friends and losing all interest in shopping, so Zayn rolls his eyes and goes in alone. He grabs them a bottle of the cheapest red wine and some jelly snakes as an afterthought because they’re Harry’s favourite, and he’s just scanning the fags behind the counter when he notices the girl standing right there, below the fags, behind the counter, staring at him.

He stares back. He dumps all wine and the jelly snakes on the counter clumsily, nearly smashing the wine. ‘Shit, fuck,’ he says, but she catches it before it rolls off to its definite death at her feet.

‘No worries,’ she says with a laugh, and _God_ , she’s Geordie. The accent somehow makes it all better, the pink hair and the crooked teeth and the bright blue eyes. ‘Good reflexes, me.’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says stupidly, wincing at himself, and then, ‘sorry for swearing.’

‘Oh, heard it all before,’ she says, smacking her gum and tapping away absently at the till. She blinks at him shamelessly.

‘My mum always said I should never swear in front of girls,’ Zayn says slowly, a bit unsure where to look. ‘Should watch my mouth.’

She smiles at him and looks down at the wine she’s stuffing into a plastic bag. ‘Maybe only in front of the good girls.’

She’s definitely flirting. It makes self-conscious heat crawl up the back of Zayn’s neck, because he’s never _ever_ been good at talking to girls like Harry is, and he gulps and looks away from her. ‘Can I have a twenty pack of Marlboro as well?’

She jumps off her little stool and reaches for them, sliding them over the scanner and smiling at Zayn. ‘I’m meant to ask you for ID, you know.’

‘You can see it if you want?’

Her smile gets slower, stickier. ‘Nah, you’re all right.’

God, she is fit. He could definitely ask her out and she’d definitely say yes. He likes how confident she is, how loud and bright her laugh was. But then she hands him the bag and the jelly snakes are poking out of the top and he thinks of Harry, Harry who is in a Committed Relationship, Harry who is very definitely Not Zayn’s, and any notion of him asking this girl out dies right away, sort of just disintegrates and falls in a heap to the floor. He smiles almost apologetically at her and heads back out to Harry, shoulders hunched, not looking back.

Maybe in another universe.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

They amble all the way up to Weavers Fields by Bethnal Green, determined to make good use of the weather. Collapsing down on the grass side by side and taking turns to sip from the bottle, they never _quite_ touch. Fingertips almost grazing, knees nearly meeting, but not quite.

Zayn suspects that this – sitting getting drunk in a park with a boy he used to fuck before slouching off to another shift at the bar – isn’t the glitz and glamour Harry expected when he announced at the age of thirteen that he was going to be a musician, but he’s too proud to change his mind. Harry takes his disappointment out on the grass, ripping savagely at a patch of it by his hip, the wine bottle resting between his legs. His jeans are rolled up at the ankle and Zayn’s finding the stretch of skin there really bizarrely attractive.

He wants to lick the curve of his bone when Harry flexes his foot.

Fucking hell. He’s like a bloody Nun set loose from a convent.

‘It’s shit, isn’t it?’ Harry says, eyebrows puckering. ‘What if I never make it, with the music thing?’

For a moment, Zayn’s distracted. He looks so nice like that, with his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth all crooked and sad. Zayn swallows and closes his eyes. ‘Then you’ll have to think of a Plan B.’

‘Oh God. I’m gonna end up an accountant like my dad. I can feel it in my bones.’

‘That’s not _that_ bad.’

‘That’s terrible. That’s literally horrendous.’

‘Your dad’s doing all right. He’s lived in bloody Australia as long as I’ve known you.’

‘I couldn’t live in Australia,’ Harry says seriously. ‘There’s fast food on every corner. You’d come and visit and I’d be the size of a bus.’

‘I think you actually have to have some mathematical skill to be an accountant,’ Zayn points out, but Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.

‘Why couldn’t I just want a normal, boring job?’ he laments savagely, and Zayn wrenches open one eye to peer at Harry. He’s sitting up, head thrown back as he drinks, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle and throat pulsing as he swallows. Zayn places a strategic arm across his lap.

‘What, like me?’

Harry squints at Zayn over his shoulder and smiles. ‘You’re not boring, Zaynie.’

A fly-kick to the chest, a dinosaur heel stamping him in the heart. ‘Really?’ he asks, genuinely fucking asking, because of course he’s pathetically fishing for Harry’s approval.

‘You’re the cleverest person I know. Of course you’re not boring.’

‘So you’re not getting rid of me just yet,’ Zayn says with a laugh that he hopes sounds nonchalant, closing his eyes again because Harry looks like he might frown and _oh – it had been going so well._

‘I’m never getting rid of you, you idiot,’ Harry replies, poking Zayn in his ribs. Zayn automatically snatches at his fingers, and Harry laughs, trying to yank them from Zayn’s tight fist.

It’s so natural, how Harry launches a kick at Zayn’s thigh and Zayn elbows Harry in the stomach, how they both laugh when the wine sloshes out of the bottle and stains the hem of Harry’s t-shirt red. Zayn knows how it could be, how easily this could blur into endless summers in the park together, licking the wine out of each other’s mouths, fingers dancing over the crotches of their jeans and feeling themselves harden at the thrill of it, the exhibitionism. Stumbling down the road together hand in hand, drunk off cheap Co-Op Zinfandel and each other, collapsing back down into Harry’s unmade bed and fucking loudly with the window open. Waking up the next morning, sharing a shower, playing noughts and crosses in the mirror mist while they’re brushing their teeth, licking jam off each other’s fingers as they make toast for breakfast. Walking to the tube together, whispering dirty promises and words of encouragement and temporary goodbyes before they collect their copies of the Metro and part ways toward different lines, Zayn watching Harry’s back disappear in a sea of multi-coloured shoulders.

But they’re just friends. Just Friends. Only Friends. And Harry eventually lets go, because he has a boyfriend he’s been with for over a year, a boyfriend who isn’t Zayn, a boyfriend who gets all of those things and more. More than Zayn could ever imagine.

So they head back, still not touching, chatting about Doniya’s job and Niall’s girlfriend and Nick’s new dog and Louis’ promotion like Zayn’s wounds aren’t all opening up again, the stitches tugging themselves undone, bleeding out like the red wine stain on Harry’s t-shirt. They sit on the floor in Harry’s flat and play FIFA for a bit, and Zayn has to change his Facebook picture to an awful selfie from 2009 as punishment for losing. They order in a Lebanese takeaway for early dinner and listen to Pink Floyd while they eat it on the floor, and for ten minutes straight Harry rambles on and on about some songs he’s been writing and Zayn stares at his mouth and wants to die. And then they lie down and talk about home, about the past, and Harry maybe presses his foot against Zayn’s calf, and Zayn writes his name into the carpet with his finger like it might stay there, a permanent reminder he exists, wishing he was tattooing it over Harry’s heart instead.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

‘I’ve been doing some candle making,’ Harry says slowly, his horrible bony awful foot still right there against Zayn’s calf, and maybe he’s developing some kind of fetish because he can feel himself heating up like a Year Seven at the school disco.

‘Candle making?’ he repeats in what he hopes is a normal register, snorting as best he can when his blood’s turned at least a million degrees hotter than it should.

‘It’s relaxing.’

‘Is it, though?’

Harry stares at him stonily. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what’s relaxing? Watching TV.’

A pitiful sigh escapes Harry’s mouth. ‘Oh, Zayn,’ he says with a shake of his head, like there’s a level of the universe Zayn hasn’t unlocked.

‘You know what else is relaxing? Sleeping.’

‘Yeah, but –’

‘You know what _isn’t_? Going on a fucking run.’

‘Oh, how wrong you are.’

‘Or yoga –’

‘Nope.’

‘Or quinoa –’

‘I… okay.’ Harry looks a little incredulous. ‘Nope.’

‘Or fucking candle making.’

‘It is,’ Harry insists stuffily. ‘Trust me.’

Zayn stares at him and feels a little fragile. His foot is still there, scorching a hole the size of a comet against Zayn’s leg. And men stronger than Zayn wouldn’t have been able to stop themselves from reaching out and tapping their knuckles against it, just once, and then indulging Harry with, ‘You’ve intrigued me now. How does one make a candle?’

Harry sits up, grinning. His foot leaves Zayn’s calf and Zayn has to sit on his hands to stop himself from grabbing his ankle. ‘You get a cup –’

‘What kind of cup?’

‘I don’t know, just a cup. Anyway –’

‘Be more specific.’

‘All right, fucking hell. Like a mug for tea.’

Zayn smiles, tongue against his teeth. His heart is whirring like a boiler on the brink and he can’t even pretend it’s not anymore. ‘Like a little teacup the Queen might use or a big fuck-off Sport’s Direct mug?’

Harry glares at him, mouth twisting petulantly. ‘Zaaaaayn.’

‘All right, sorry. Tell me about your candles.’

‘So you get your cup. And you put the wick in.’ Harry mimes a cup and a wick for dramatic effect, peering at Zayn from behind his fingers like an excited child. His fingers are very long and bony and have done many, many indecent things to Zayn. He stares at them without blinking. ‘And you have to, like, tug on the wick –’

Quite an enormous part of Zayn suddenly wants to burst into flames, so instead he snorts and tries not to look close to tears. ‘Honestly what the fuck.’

‘So you’re holding the wick erect, like –’ Harry gestures helpfully. ‘And you pour the wax in, nice and slow –’

‘Oh my God, this is like porn,’ Zayn says with a laugh, wishing he was joking. Harry’s grinning like the fucking arsehole he is, still miming the stupid candle, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

‘Leave it to set, nice and hard.’ His fingers flex. Zayn’s starting to think he might have a hand fetish as well. ‘And there it is. Pop it out, a candle is born.’

‘Well, excellent work.’ He pretends to check his watch. ‘So when’s the next meeting at the WI?’

Harry rolls his eyes and tries unsuccessfully to fight off a smile. ‘Don’t hate me when I never make you a birthday candle.’

‘Oh don’t worry, I won’t.’

‘I can do different scents. Could do cinnamon.’

Zayn sniffs. ‘Don’t like cinnamon,’ he says, which isn’t true.

‘Could do, like, roses or something.’

‘Don’t like roses,’ Zayn lies.

‘Could do vanilla,’ Harry says, still smiling, edging closer. ‘Or orange.’

‘Nah.’

‘Coconut?’ Harry says, so close their knees are touching. He’s grinning at Zayn playfully, but one finger runs along the seam of Zayn’s jeans, right over his calf. And when he shakes his hair out and rearranges it with his free hand, it must be deliberate because Zayn’s half-knocked out by the smell of his shampoo. Coconut shampoo.

_Oh no._

‘Okay,’ he mumbles. 'I could like that.'

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Harry has to leave for work at seven so Zayn leaves with him, not before sneakily pressing a kiss to his ridiculous flowerpot when Harry’s in the bathroom. And then Harry walks him to the bus stop, both of their hands in their respective pockets, heads bowed towards the pavement to protect their eyes from the dipping sun.

‘Thank you so much for coming today.’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’

‘No really, Zayn. I know you had your interview and everything –’

‘Harry, it’s fine. I didn’t have any other plans.’

 _And I’ll always be here, whenever you need me,_ Zayn wants to say, but something tells him not to.

Harry licks his lips, tainted red from the wine, and smiles loosely. ‘I knew you’d cheer me up. You always do.’

Zayn forces a laugh. ‘That’s what friends are for,’ he says with a fair amount of strain. ‘Wouldn’t be a good mate if I didn’t send your sad arse off to work tipsy.’

‘Exactly. Best mates forever, we are, aren’t we?’ He nudges Zayn with his shoulder and doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘We’ll have to see more of each other, yeah? Well, not if you get this job and you’re busy in the day! But if not. Not that I’m hoping you don’t get the job. I’m just saying.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Zayn says with a smile, a genuine one this time. ‘We will.’

There’s a gentle pause as they walk beside each other, shoulders brushing.

‘Hey, I didn’t even get a chance to ask – anyone on the horizon?’

‘What horizon?’

‘Your horizon! Boys, girls, anyone?’

‘Oh. No, no, not really.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘It’s fine. Can’t really bring anyone back to shag at my place, anyway. They’d get the fucking Spanish Inquisition from the three witches the next day.’

‘Three witches, I like that.’

‘Shakespeare said it first.’

‘Hubble, bubble and all that, yeah?’

‘Exactly.’ They’ve reached the bus stop now, and Zayn fiddles about in his pockets for his Oyster card, before adding, in a hopefully cool and offhand voice, ‘So yeah, no one. Just me.’

‘That’s all right. You’ll find someone.’

‘I’m sure I will.’

‘One of Nick’s mates is single, actually, really nice girl, Daisy, she’s got a fucking _amazing_ body, so nice as well, likes dogs and cooking –’

‘I’m all right, actually, H.’

‘You sure? He won’t mind, honestly, he loves setting people up, he’s always trying to get Gem to meet up with –’

‘I’m fine. Really. Thanks though.’

‘Okay.’ Harry licks his lips, pausing, and then smiles. ‘Well I – I’ll see you soon, then?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘I’ll text you about a gig Niall and I’ve got pencilled in, somewhere near London Bridge.’

‘Yeah, definitely do.’

‘All right. Thanks again.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Harry pulls Zayn in for a hug, the kind of engulfing black hole hug only Harry can give, squeezing just a bit too hard before letting go just a bit too fast, leaving Zayn unsteady on his feet. Harry smiles, strokes Zayn on the shoulder, and then walks away, head down as he rushes off towards the tube station.

Zayn watches his back until he rounds the corner, and then he’s gone.

It hurts a bit, watching him go. More than a bit, really. He feels like he’s walked away from Harry so many times, but he’s never had to watch Harry leave him, never seen the awful slope of his shoulders as he disappears in a crowd.

His phone is out and his mum’s voice is on the other end of the line before he even realises that he rang her.

‘Hiya love! You all right?’

‘Hi,’ Zayn says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He leans against the plastic wall of the bus shelter and closing his eyes.

‘Oh,’ she says, immediately worried. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Just, like, wanted to hear your voice,’ Zayn mumbles, accent deepening like it always does when he’s talking to his family, the consonants slurring and mushing together.

‘Okay,’ she says softly. ‘That’s all right.’

And Zayn feels it again, the loneliness, less of an all consuming pain like it was at Cambridge but just a steady throb that resonates all over, because he misses Harry even when Harry’s in front of him and he can’t have him and it’s the cruellest thing in the whole world.

‘What are you up to?’ Zayn asks, scuffing the toe of his boot against a raised paving slab.

‘Just waiting in the car outside Safaa’s judo lesson. It’s _awful_ weather up here, raining buckets out! I had to ring home and get Wali to run out and take the washing off the line.’ Despite himself, Zayn smiles stupidly at the pavement. ‘How’s the city, then? Sunshine or showers?’

‘It’s nice today.’ He swallows. ‘Been a nice day.’

‘Lucky for some!’ his mum teases, and Zayn can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Oh, I spoke to your sister earlier and she said you’ve been painting the windows for the lady downstairs.’ She pauses, and even in the silence Zayn can almost hear her puffing up with pride, before she continues, ‘That’s so lovely of you, Zayn.’

‘S’nothing,’ Zayn mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. ‘It needed doing. No skin off my back, init?’

‘My lovely boy,’ she murmurs, and Zayn actually _aches_ for her, wishing she were here so he could let himself be held, just for once.

‘I, um,’ Zayn starts, and for one insane moment, he nearly tells her about Harry. _I’m in love with Harry_ , he nearly says, and then, discarding that, _I like boys as well as girls_. He physically cringes as the sentence forms in his head, fingers gripping the phone tighter.

He knows his mum wouldn’t be angry, or sad, but maybe… disappointed. If he ends up with a boy, with Harry, there won’t be a girl to bring home to giggle with his sisters, no anxious hand holding in the waiting-room for the birth of their grandchild, no big straight wedding for her only son. He tries to imagine his family in Pakistan reacting to news of his engagement to a boy, or, possibly even worse, his mum’s parents, who live in a tiny village in Yorkshire and have only ever seen a gay person on the television. He thinks of his Grandpa’s sniffy disapproval, peering over a copy of _The Telegraph_ and eyeing up Harry’s hair, his unbuttoned shirt, his skin-tight jeans.

Not angry, not sad, but definitely disappointed. Everything he’s ever done was to make his parents proud. They didn’t seem _that_ bothered at all about the fact he left Cambridge with a Third, but even so, Zayn still worried. He never wants to disappoint his parents again.

And besides, he’s not getting married to Harry. Even if there were no other obstacles, he couldn’t marry Harry because Harry doesn’t want to marry him.

‘The bus is here,’ Zayn lies. ‘Gotta go, Mum.’

‘All right. Speak to you Tuesday, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Love you, sweetheart.’

‘Love you too.’

‘Chin up, yeah?’

‘Always is, Mum. Always is.’

  
****

**_cos we are who we are when no one's watching_  
Wednesday, 1st June 2016 ******

 

 

Zayn wakes up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, throat dry and scratchy, and throws an arm across his face to stifle a moan. It’s probably the morning, but it’s also the morning after the night before, which is an entirely different thing all together.

He lies there for a moment, damp hair in his eyes, unshaven cheeks scratching the skin of his arm. He’s hard, and he lets his other hand scratch swirls into the skin below his navel, teasing but not giving in.

A low, breathy snore breaks to his left, and Zayn can’t help but look over, peeking out from behind his arm at the long, bare expanse of Harry’s back, the motorway of his spine, the sliproad ribs, pothole dimples just above the barrier of the sheet. Zayn actually shivers, hands aching to grab at the curve of his hips, scratch his name into Harry’s back, play dot to dot with his mosquito bites.

He manages to untangle himself from the clammy sheets and hobble across the apartment to the bathroom, ripping his t-shirt off when he’s only halfway there. He won’t let himself sleep shirtless when Harry’s in the bed next to him, even if Harry’s happy curling up there in only his boxers. Zayn has to retain some kind of material barriers if he wants to keep hold of his already dwindling self-control.

The shower’s so cold he winces when it first hits his shoulders, and he has to press a hand to the tile to steady himself. He’s quickly grateful for it, though, as the frigid spray beats the sweat away, and Zayn lets it trail down his face as he stares at the plughole, imagining the night before disappearing into the black depths of the Spanish sewers.

Last night. He might be imagining it – he probably is, he might even have dreamed it – but he’s hit with this memory of the pair of them in the bar, an image so perfectly clear it’s staggering. After their third round of tequila, the lime biting at the corners of Zayn’s mouth, he remembers Harry leaning into him, hands pressing against Zayn’s stomach, smiling so close to Zayn that his face blurred into smudges of pink and green and white, and Zayn remembers tasting salt and citrus off Harry’s lips, just quickly, just once.

It’s probably not true, just a drunken fantasy, but Zayn’s fisting himself in the freezing water before he can decide against it, pressing his forehead against the wall and gripping the grouting with shaking fingers, his back arching. Inviting Harry out here was probably the single worst idea Zayn’s ever had, and he knows it, knuckles scraping the wall as his fist works faster, mouth falling open. The potential for disaster was clear from the start, from the moment Harry booked his EasyJet flight, but now it seems terrifyingly tangible, knocking Zayn in the backs of the knees. It’s like hearing the boom of a firework but not seeing it yet, because there is a very big chance that, in the next two nights Harry’s here, he might tell Harry he loves him. And then he will have to go into hiding and never, ever reappear.

Zayn comes with a mangled gasp, knees buckling, and he gulps in a breath before glancing over his shoulder worriedly, as though Harry might be standing there with a disapproving look and his hands on his hips.

After he’s sufficiently removed all evidence from the shower wall, he pads, wet-footed, back into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Harry’s still asleep and still lightly snoring, his sharp face all soft and vulnerable, lips pouting, eyelashes sooty and long. The fingers of one hand clutch the pillow tightly, and it’s the only part of him not completely relaxed, as though he’s dreaming of falling and is trying to hold on.

And Zayn suddenly forgets why this was a bad idea.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

The sky is crayon blue and never ending, unblemished by clouds or the promise of rain. Zayn and Harry walk beneath it through the crowded streets of Barcelona, sunglasses slipping on their sweaty noses, skin slick with sun-cream. Harry slept off his hangover, and presumably, all knowledge of the kiss that may or may not have happened, because he’s just as bright and cheerful as yesterday, his now shoulder-length hair scraped back away from his sticky hairline into a bun, just like Zayn’s.

They stroll aimlessly, tired and directionless but unwaveringly happy, both of them aware that right now, right this second, they are in the prime of their life. At twenty-two and twenty-three, they will never be more attractive, more energised, more positive. The only pressure Zayn feels in the whole world is Harry’s occasional hand on his arm, pointing out a cool side alley or a cute dog or a couple sharing an ice cream.

It’s an absolute world away from the place he used to be in, both spatially and also in his own head. Somehow that only heightens everything, makes the sky bluer and the sun hotter and his smile wider, everything crisper and sharper and _better_.

Zayn’s been out here for two months already. He got that desk job at the Institute of Archaeology, and after just under a year of work in the London office they’ve sent him over on an extended research visit to the University of Barcelona. It’s a four-month stint in a little rickety apartment rented out by the Institute, discussing ancient church construction with Spanish professors. Harry wanted a mini break from the Barfly, so he’s here, for four nights and four days of daytime drinking and pretending to be interested in the architecture. Zayn took two days annual leave, combined it with a weekend, and made it an occasion, carting Harry around the Sagrada Familia and Park Güell and Montserrat like a particularly boring tour guide on acid.

However drunk they get, absolutely nothing can happen between them. Harry’s still with Nick, and if Zayn was looking for excuses, he could say he’s been seeing a Spanish girl, Sara, who’s a secretary at the university, even though it’s strictly casual and they only see each other once or twice a week. The box that held that possibility was swiftly shut a long time ago, and Zayn’s accepting it. Almost. Trying to.

The maddening prospect of them being Just Friends has become, well, less maddening – more of a dull ache in the pit of his stomach rather than a sharp stab to the gut. It helps Zayn to remind himself that this was all his own doing, that once upon a time he wanted this, this distance. Harry squeezes Zayn’s arm again and points to the Catlo Battlo – ‘look, Zayn. That’s your bloke Gaudi, init? – and Zayn so nearly grabs at his hand. Everything in him wants him to, a throbbing that resonates like bass in every inch of his plasma. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

‘So it’s about a murder,’ Harry says, voice slow and smooth. ‘But it actually happened.’

‘Right.’

‘So he went around – the author I mean – and he found the murderers. And he sat them down and he asked them, like, all these questions. Got into their minds, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I get it.’

‘And the way it’s written – I don’t wanna say you understand, but you do, a bit. Like, not really, because the family were perfectly nice and nobody should be killed. But I mean, he makes the murderers human, you know? It’s hard to explain.’

‘But _why_?’

‘What do you mean “why”?’

‘Well, why did he bother writing it in the first place?’ Harry frowns like Zayn’s just blasphemed, and Zayn shrugs, his lips twitching at the look of horror on Harry’s face. ‘Why would he go and talk to real murderers when he can just make them up?’

‘But that’s the _point_ , Zayn! Everyone wants to know what murderers are thinking, don’t they?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You’re not even a little bit curious?’ Harry huffs in disbelief when Zayn shakes his head. ‘Bullshit, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s nicer living in ignorance, I think,’ Zayn says, closing his eyes against the sun. The beach is loud and hectic around them, sand sticking to their legs, dotting like freckles across Zayn’s cheek. ‘Some people are crackers. God made them that way, I guess. I don’t want to know why.’

‘You’re meant to be an Anthropologist!’ Harry exclaims, slapping at Zayn’s bare stomach with the corner of his book. ‘This is meant to be your – your niche!’

‘My _niche_?’

‘Yeah, you know – your area of expertise.’

‘I got a Third.’

‘Yeah, from _Cambridge!_ What would they say?’

‘Cambridge can suck my dick,’ Zayn says flatly.

Silence befalls them, and Zayn settles back into the sand, stretching out his legs and sighing. It’s so hot, the heavy, uncomfortable kind of heat that feels like somebody’s sitting on you. Salt in the air, salt on his forehead, in his armpits, the creases of his knees. His stomach is burning slowly, reddening and scaling, but he can’t be bothered to move. He sighs again, wanting to grasp Harry’s attention, but when he looks over at him, Harry’s lying on his front, face almost buried in the book with the vigour of his concentration.

Harry reads novels with a look on his face like he’s deciphering hieroglyphics, and this is both terribly unfair and extremely bad for Zayn’s heart. He does this, he gives his plants names, he carefully spent a good ten minutes rubbing suncream onto every inch of his skin, so afraid of burning that he twisted about like a contortionist, tongue between his teeth, trying to reach his back. It’s all very, horribly unfair.

‘Does Nick read?’ Zayn finds himself asking, and he closes his eyes and turns his head before Harry can catch his eye.

‘Sometimes,’ Harry says absently, pausing before going on, ‘He’s really busy at the moment.’

‘Why?’

‘That thing I told you about. New clients at work. Some big boy band.’

Zayn scratches at his scorching stomach, unsure why he thought to bring Nick up when it makes him want to scorch a gaping hole in the atmosphere and set fire to a few thousand Nick voodoo dolls. Queasily, he changes the subject. ‘How’s Niall?’

Harry sighs. ‘Gone off the music a bit. He still loves it, obviously, but it’s been two years of trying now. Shitty bars and nobody really listening. It gets a bit old.’

‘Does it?’

‘He wants to do TV stuff now. Nick knows this guy –’ Zayn glares at the clouds; Nick just always knows _someone, some guy, some lifesaver_ ‘– who works for ITV, he’s gonna get Niall involved on a show as a runner. It’ll be good for him, I think.’

‘What about you? And your band stuff?’

Silence again. Zayn hears Harry turn a page in his book, hears his nails scratch over his skin – his arm maybe – and Zayn can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve Niall, or Nick. His mouth twists in resistance, until eventually he can’t help it. ‘Harry?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Have you ever considered, you know. Getting Nick to set you up a meeting with his boss at the label.’

He hears Harry shift in the sand beside him. ‘Yeah, obviously. He says he will all the time.’ He sniffs. ‘I’m not above nepotism, Zayn, trust me.’

‘So why haven’t you done it?’

Harry doesn’t reply for so long that Zayn turns his head to glance at him, checking he hasn’t gone back to his book. He’s lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, tracing his finger aimlessly through the sand. ‘I’ve not really written anything that good, yet,’ he mumbles like it’s a sordid confession, licking his lips. ‘No point putting Nick to all that trouble when I know I’m not good enough yet.’

Zayn swallows. ‘You think?’

 _I think you’re good enough._ He’s definitely biased, but Harry’s great, and it makes his heart feel wobbly that he doesn’t know it. Zayn remembers two years ago, telling Harry he was amazing at the football game, how Harry said ‘I know’. Maybe he doesn’t.

‘One day it’ll happen,’ Harry says defiantly, grabbing a fistful of sand and letting it trickle through his fingers slowly, four thin hourglass ribbons of sand. ‘Just not quite yet.’

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Afternoon approaches in that lazy way it does in Barcelona, creeping up so slowly it feels like the day might stretch on and on forever. Zayn must fall asleep beside Harry and his book, because when he blinks his eyes open the sky is even bluer behind his sunglasses, a piercingly chemical azure that suddenly feels too sharp, and the shouting kids sound too loud, and the sand is too hot.

_So hot._

Zayn sits up quickly, and winces when his stomach stings, scorched skin shifting over muscle. ‘Fuck, fuck.’

‘You all right?’

‘Think I’ve burned.’

‘Oh, shit. Here, hang on.’ Harry sits up as Zayn flops back to the sand, rustling around inside his rucksack before retrieving a green bottle. ‘This’ll help.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Aloe vera.’

‘Is it gonna sting?’

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be a fucking baby.’

He hands Zayn the bottle impatiently, but Zayn shies away from it, shoving Harry’s arms when he tries to force it into his hands. ‘Don’t.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Harry laughs. ‘Zayn, come on.’

‘You’re not saying it won’t hurt!’

‘I don’t want to lie! It might sting a tiny bit.’

‘Nah, it’s all ri–’ Zayn’s cut off by Harry squirting an excessive amount of aloe vera right in the small dip between his abs, shaking the bottle just to maximise dramatic effect. Zayn yelps and Harry laughs viciously, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

‘Did you die?’ Harry asks sarcastically, throwing the bottle aside, and rubbing a hand messily over Zayn’s stomach, fingers slipping through the liquid. ‘Did your skin burst into flames?’

 _No, but it might do_ , Zayn thinks, and he tries very hard not to say anything because if he does, he might do something like grunt, or say ‘please never stop doing that’. If it stings, Zayn doesn’t even notice.

Harry keeps his palm circling over Zayn’s red-hot stomach, long fingers slick with aloe vera and glistening in the sunlight, and both of them pretend that this isn’t forbidden behaviour. Just for a moment, the boundaries of the friendship have melted like ice cream under the glare of the sun, allowing them to straddle the wall they’ve carefully erected between them. Harry’s so close Zayn can hear him breathing, and when he eventually pulls his hand away, his eyelashes flutter like he’s trying to blink away the image of Zayn stretched out in front of him, brown skin glinting in the sun, heavy eyes on Harry’s face, arms stretched above his head.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

And suddenly the sky is black and it’s later than Zayn can comprehend, and they’re drunk again, stumbling back into the apartment trying not to laugh and wake up the old señor downstairs.

Instinctively, Zayn knocks open the door with his hip after shoving the key in the lock, and he swears loudly, his skin wailing at him.

‘Shhh!’ Harry laughs, pushing Zayn into the flat so that he crashes into the sofa and topples backwards, landing on his back with a thump. ‘Fuck, sorry!’

Zayn just howls with laughter, throwing back his head and gasping with it, and Harry laughs too. He shuts the door behind him and shuffles over, dropping down onto his knees at the other end of the sofa.

‘Shhh, Zayn.’ He leans forward, pressing his fingers over Zayn’s mouth. ‘Shhh.’

‘Sorry,’ Zayn whispers loudly against Harry’s fingers, eyes wide as they flicker across Harry’s face. ‘Can’t be loud. ‘S late.’

‘It’s very late.’

‘Very very late.’ Zayn grins from behind Harry’s palm, and Harry laughs even though nothing’s funny, a laugh that reaches the skin at the corners of his eyes and makes Zayn want to die. ‘Hey. You’ve caught the sun.’

‘Yeah, hot here, init.’ He grins when Zayn makes a _well, yeah_ face. ‘I always thought heat like this was a lie.’

Zayn laughs delightedly, his nose wrinkling, and Harry’s hand drops away from his mouth. ‘What d’ya mean?’

‘Thought it was a lie on the TV. Never been so hot, ever.’

‘You’ve been to Australia!’

‘Yeah, in their winter.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Zayn says, even though it is. It’s so hot. Unseasonably hot for Barcelona, apparently.

‘Says you, burned to a fucking crisp.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ Zayn mumbles as he screws up his face indignantly.

Harry bites his lip, cocking his head to the side, eyes scanning Zayn’s face as though he’s considering something. ‘Still fit as fuck, though,’ he says slowly.

Zayn’s eyes widen like a deer in the headlights, stomach twisting. ‘Um.’

‘Shut up,’ Harry says with a roll of his eyes. ‘You know you’re fit.’

‘Not – not, uh,’ Zayn mumbles, gulping, ‘not when I look like a lobster.’

Harry nods, smiles slowly. ‘Even then.’

There’s a weird sort of silence then. Zayn looks away because suddenly Harry’s face is too much, even in the dark of the room.

‘It’s unfair,’ Zayn mumbles. ‘You’re the white one, you’re meant to be the one that fries.’

Harry gives a smug little shrug. ‘Not me. Indestructible.’

‘You look like you’ve been in a sunbed.’ He scans Harry’s torso, eyes stopping on his waist. ‘Go on, lemme see it again.’

Harry grins, withdrawing his fingers and hitching up his t-shirt. It’s just the plaster, a big white rectangle over his hip, but Zayn traces it with his fingers, knowing what’s under there.

_Might as well._

When he glances back up at Harry’s face his eyelids are fluttering, lips briefly sticking together before his mouth parts. Despite his tan, the silvery light tumbling in through the open curtains makes him look pale, the sharp line of his hipbone under Zayn’s fingers casting dark triangular shadows across his skin.

‘Remember,’ Zayn says quietly, even though it’s dead quiet and nobody else can hear them, ‘when I told you to go to Barcelona. Years and years ago.’

Harry swallows, his hand falling to his waist to detach Zayn’s from the plaster concealing the new ink, but instead of shoving it away, he loops his fingers lightly through Zayn’s. _Fuck._ ‘No, I don’t remember.’

Zayn gazes at their intertwined hands like one of them doesn’t belong to him. ‘It was when you came to Cambridge.’

‘Oh.’ Harry rubs his lips together. ‘Shit, I hated that weekend. I was so sad.’

‘Me too,’ Zayn says, even though whenever he thinks of that weekend, he remembers being so, so happy, falling into bed with Harry and tracing his fingers over Harry’s soft face, his dreamy expression stamped permanently on Zayn’s brain.

‘Not just then, ages after too. I was sad for ages.’ He stares at Zayn straight in the eyes, and he looks sad now, too, eyes big and unfocussed but more honest than Zayn’s seen them in ages. _So was I_ , Zayn nearly says. _For three whole long, miserable, horrible years._ ‘You made me so sad, Zayn.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I thought you hated me.’

Zayn gulps. That inevitable _I love you_ rumbles threateningly in his chest, pulls the saliva from his mouth, kicks staccato into his heart. ‘You were the only thing I didn’t hate, Harry,’ he manages.

Harry blinks at him and something visibly shatters in him, his eyebrows jumping, mouth opening and closing as he starts to say something and then changes his mind. ‘I – Why didn’t you ever say that to me?’ he asks quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Zayn admits, his voice barely louder than a whisper, and Harry stares back at him, the pair of them overwhelmed by all the things that neither of them are allowed to say, collapsing under the weight of what could have been.

It hangs heavily between them like a dense cloud, grey and tense with everything it's holding in, and Harry looks at Zayn's mouth, hand moving to slowly brush against Zayn's knee, and everything burns bright orange and red and blindingly yellow until the moment is torn in two and Harry feels compelled to stand up. He coughs breathlessly, moves towards the bookcase, and Zayn finds that he's following him, reaching for Harry's arm.

'Harry,' he says, voice low. A strange sense of inevitability is overwhelming him, probably enabled by the alcohol and the feel of Harry's fingers against his knee, and definitely enforced by the way Harry shivers when Zayn grabs at his arm.

'Don't,' Harry mumbles, shaking him off.

'Harry,' he says again, stepping closer. He can feel warmth pouring from Harry's skin like one of those electrical heaters, a warmth that begs to be met with Zayn's fingers, his tongue.

'Stop it, Zayn,' Harry says warningly, an edge to his voice which makes an ugly, regrettable part of Zayn snarl in indignation. Harry was _his,_ first. He's waited patiently for years, stood beside Nick at all those gigs with a fake smile glued to his face, like he didn't mind being shoved to the side. He's helped Harry in ways Nick couldn't, through loneliness and homesickness and unhappiness. He's wanked off to Harry so many times it's pathetic, and never once has he put his fantasy into action. He's waited and he's been good and kind and patient and, fuck, he might be drunk, but he _wants_ this.

'Harry,' he says again, in a voice that says _fucking look at me_. Harry whips around, nostrils flaring, his skin red and flustered.

'Stop it,' he snaps, but Zayn hears his breath catch as his gaze drops to Zayn's mouth.

'Are you sure you want me to stop?' Zayn whispers. He loves him so much he can actually feel it all over him, everywhere, even in his fingertips, the way they prickle and reach for Harry like they're driven by a force beyond Zayn's control. And when Harry just swallows and looks away, hands twitching, Zayn stumbles forward on the creaky floorboard, hand reaching for Harry's face. He manages to get a hand in Harry’s hair, thumb soft against his cheek, and Harry allows it for half a second, eyelashes fluttering, breath hot against Zayn's palm.

But then his eyes open and he shoves Zayn away, staring at him like he’s gone mad, before he points at the sofa as though Zayn's a dog. 'Zayn. Sit down,' he says firmly, although there’s a little tremble to his voice. Zayn obeys immediately, blinking up at Harry with wide eyes, his hands in his lap, skin so hot it feels like it's crackling.

'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' Harry asks, and he can’t look at him as he tugs a hand through his hair roughly.

'Is it okay if I smoke?' Zayn asks, lighting up without waiting for an answer.

'Listen,' Harry hisses, but Zayn just exhales as coolly as he can and stares at Harry's terrified face. 'I don't know what you think this is, but it stops now. Okay?'

'Pardon?'

'I know what you’re doing.’

‘What am I doing?’ Zayn asks innocently.

Harry stutters over a hysterical laugh. ‘You can't just – do that. You can't get whatever you want, whenever you want it.'

Zayn raises his eyebrows doubtfully, sucking on his cigarette. He'd look more cool if his hands weren't trembling. 'Hmm.'

'God, you're an arrogant son of a bitch, sometimes, you know.'

'You wouldn't have me any other way.'

'I don't have you,' Harry snaps, finally looking at him. 'We're not – that's not what we are. We're friends.'

This stings so viscerally Zayn nearly chokes on the smoke curling down the passage his throat. His eyes water and he feels his face sour, feels his mouth twist unpleasantly as some tiny voice in his brain whispers, _stop this now before it kills you_. 'Tell that to your dick,' Zayn says sharply, pointing with his cigarette. Harry looks mortified and abruptly turns around, hiding his reddening face and the telltale bulge in his shorts.

'Shut the fuck up.'

'Just come here, babe,' Zayn says tiredly. 'Come here.'

'No.'

'You want to.'

Harry falters, licking his lips. 'I want to go home.'

'No, you don't.'

'I want Nick.'

Another sting, but this one is worse, a giant wasp venom injection to the heart. It hurts so much that Zayn feels his blood run cold, the voice screaming at him now, telling him to stop so loudly it's almost deafening. He stubs out his cigarette because his hands are shaking so badly he keeps dropping ash on himself.

'No you don't,' he breathes, but he sounds so unsure, and he can't bear to look at Harry when he turns around.

'I do,' Harry says defiantly. 'He's nice to me.'

'I'm nice to you.' Harry barks out a laugh, and the venom spreads quicker. 'You don't want nice.'

'I do.'

'No, you -'

'I want someone who'll stay.'

A pitchfork jab, right in the centre of his infected chest. 'You want me,' is all Zayn manages to add, his voice so tentative and frightened that it's barely audible even in the dark stillness of the apartment, but this time Harry doesn't reply, just dips his head to conceal the flush of his cheeks. If he says no again, Zayn's heart will curl up into a ball, like the tangled odd socks in the back of a drawer, and never unfurl. If Harry says no, Zayn knows he means it. That he doesn't want him anymore.

But he doesn't. And it's not just the silence that speaks, because he knows that silence doesn't mean _yes_. It's the way Harry shifts forward like he can't help it, the way he's twisting the hem of his t-shirt through his fingers like he's restraining himself, and when he looks up, he stares at Zayn's mouth so intently it makes Zayn's skin feel thin. It's the way he meets Zayn's eye briefly, and in it is that look he had in Cambridge, that confused, burning desire, and it's so hot it sets the whole room aflame.

It's all the confirmation Zayn's mangled, wretched heart needs. He spreads himself out wider on the sofa, eyes glued to the strained crotch of Harry's shorts, because there's nothing left to do but throw himself at him. He can't leave this as it is, a wide, expansive gulf of things unsaid and un-done that he'll dwell on forever. But more than that, he can't let himself believe he could manage to get anything else, that he could fight for Harry, that he's worth more than Nick. He's under no illusion that Nick would ever behave this way, embarrass himself like this, prove himself to be such an awful, selfish person. And more than that is the fact that the rejection he's just experienced is only a small taste of what could happen if he told Harry everything, that he loves him, that he'd do anything to have him properly. It hurts too much even imagining it, so much that Zayn has to swallow a thick wad of saliva, like he might throw up.

‘So you’re suddenly a saint now?’ Zayn says, staring at Harry as he spreads his legs and tries what he hopes is a wry smile. Harry shifts forward even farther. ‘You didn’t have a problem telling me how much of a slut you were in Cambridge when you wanted me then.’

Harry’s breath catches, wrenching his gaze back up to Zayn's face. Harry used to like that - any sort of suggestion that Zayn was jealous, or that he'd thought about Harry fucking other people, had him whining and writhing in seconds, the exhibitionist in him rearing its head. Zayn's suddenly worried he's gone too far, though, and his knees wobble like they might draw shut again, an apology sitting on his tongue, until he sees the look that blooms on Harry's face. His eyes subtly roll back a little in suppressed pleasure, jaw clenching, an almost violent shudder passing through him as he croaks, ‘Huh?’

‘ _I just wanna fuck everyone all the time, poor me_ ,’ Zayn mimics. He pushes his t-shirt up so Harry can see his stomach. ‘Did the job though, didn’t it?’

Harry coughs to conceal a groan and scratches the back of his neck, looking around as though help might emerge out of the cracks in the floorboards or the broom-cupboard Zayn’s always been irrationally too afraid to open. 'What do you want?' he asks, almost diplomatically, like there's a deal to be made.

Zayn blinks back at him under hooded eyelids, palming at the crotch of his shorts. 'Want you to fuck me,' he says, which, in the grand scheme of things, is somewhere near the bottom of the things he wants in life, but it's all he can get now and he'll accept it if he must. It has the desired effect, though; Harry moves forward again as he inhales sharply, eyes travelling down Zayn's body.

'Oh, Jesus.'

'Please,' Zayn adds, whining. He'd crawl across the floorboards and press his face into Harry's crotch if he thought that'd advance his case. Instead he does his best to look sultry even though Harry used to tell him it makes him look stupid, biting his lip and smiling at Harry, watching his resolve visibly crumble.

'You're making this really hard for me,' Harry croaks, blinking quickly, and Zayn's not entirely sure what he's referring to, whether it's this very moment or something a lot bigger, deeper. He isn't sure how to respond so after an awkward moment of hesitation he pulls off his t-shirt entirely and reaches out an arm for Harry, and when Harry flinches and looks away, Zayn has a flash of hatred for himself. His incapability to let go of Harry is what drove him away in the first place. Zayn's dug himself into a treacherous no man's land, unable to fearlessly give himself to Harry fully but too scared to let him go, angling himself into the line of Harry's gunfire but unwilling to pull the trigger of his own gun first. Even now, stretched out on the sofa just one step away from writhing around and begging Harry to fuck him, they both know he'd never kiss Harry first. And it's just fortunate for him that Harry, such a kind, strong, sweet person, has one weakness, and that weakness is Zayn, and in the end, as desperate as he is, Zayn will exploit that if he has to because what else is there? He knows it's selfish and terrible, he can feel it throbbing over every inch of skin, how bad and wrong and horrible this is, and if it weren't for the way Harry were looking at him, eyes glassy with desire, breath heaving in his chest, he would have been crying and pummelling Harry with apologies ages ago. But it is what it is, and he wants. Wants to feel Harry. Wants to show Harry, in touches, how Zayn has so much adoration stuffed inside his chest he feels as though he can barely breathe around it. 

This is the only way. He doesn't know how else to get Harry back, and he hates himself for it, every part of himself. He wishes he were more, were enough, so that he didn't have to do this. He wishes he didn't have to act like this to be wanted. Harry has two people obsessed with him, and Zayn has no-one, because he can't give himself to anyone but Harry and Harry's got someone else and that's the way things are. He's never been good enough for anything - not Cambridge, not Harry, nothing - but if Harry lets Zayn touch him tonight, they can pretend. This is all he knows. He's desperate in ways he's never felt before. It's smothering him.

' _Please_ , Harry. I want you so much,' Zayn mumbles, eyes glued to Harry's as he licks his lips and watches as Harry's chest stutters over a strangled breath. 'I can make you come so good, Harry.'

Harry looks pained, torn between two actions, his eyes fluttering desperately over him, arms twitching by his sides. 'Is this why you invited me here?'

'I'd let you do anything to me,' Zayn says, ignoring him and the way his heart has just burst into flames. He closes his eyes, scratching over his stomach, trying to remember how to breathe. 'Anything in the world.'

'Is this what you wanted?' Harry spits, voice deep and unsteady. Zayn knows he's stepped closer by the telltale groan of the floorboards and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. 'You asked me out here ‘cos you knew I'd give in?'

 _Give in_. Zayn's heart clenches. 'No I – No. I – I want you to come on my face, babe. Wanna –'

'You know I'm fucking weak, don't you? All those times you fucked me over were just in preparation for this, yeah?' Harry's hand is on his ankle, gripping it hard. 'Is that what this is? Is this what you wanted?'

'No,’ Zayn gasps, wide-eyed in the face of Harry’s anger, and some kind of rationality sets in. The wrongness, awfulness, of it punches Zayn in the face. _What the fuck is he doing?_ ‘Wait, I'm sorry, if you don't want to –' 

'But I do, don't I?' Harry spits, hand sliding up Zayn's calf. 'Of course I do. We both knew I would. Every damn time.' 

Zayn's heart burns white. Suddenly, it's too much, and he feels himself drawing away from Harry's hand. He doesn't want Harry to feel like he's _giving in._ He wants Harry to want him back. 'Harry, seriously, if you don't want to –' 

'Shut up, Zayn.'

Violent tears sting in his eyes. 'Listen, it's not – I asked you here because I –'

But Zayn doesn’t get to finish. They’ll never know what he might have said, because Harry pulls his hand from Zayn’s ankle, and just as Zayn’s heart sinks, he’s reaching for his chest instead, yanking him forward by his shoulder, and then –

They’re kissing.

It happens so fast Zayn’s not allowed time to think about why this might actually be a completely horrendous idea, any semblance of self-preservation disappearing when Harry’s hot mouth catches against his, teeth sharp as they sink into his lower lip. Instead, Zayn surges forward, grabbing at Harry’s face with both hands, moaning against his lips, licking his way into his mouth. _Dying for it._

And he’s been dying for it for three whole years, fantasising about Harry’s mouth in bed at night, on the tube to work, when he’s been here in Barcelona kissing Sara. His whole body reacts to the old, familiar feel of Harry’s mouth, the desperate curl of his tongue against Zayn’s, the hot pull of his lips. The sound of them kissing fills up the entire room, the heavy breath, their wet mouths moving against each other, the noise Harry makes when Zayn presses down hard on his neck, feeling his pulse jump under his thumb.

‘Come here, come here,’ Zayn gasps against Harry’s mouth, tugging at Harry in a flail of frantic limbs, at his shirt, his arms, his hair. Harry pulls back, stands and tugs his t-shirt off so miles of tanned, smooth skin are on show right in front of Zayn’s face. He reaches for Harry’s hip and tugs, biting and licking across Harry’s stomach, tonguing the junction of his hip, knuckles kneading over the hard line of his dick through his jeans, before he twists his fingers in his belt loops and Harry falls forward onto him in one fluid movement.

The room is so hot and Harry’s mouth is hotter, making Zayn’s fingers shake. Harry’s hands are scorching too as he skims over the burns on Zayn’s stomach, pinching his nipple and biting at Zayn’s lip when he pulls back to gasp. Zayn licks at the corner of his mouth, lightheaded. “Harry, God, I want – I want –’

‘Stop talking,’ Harry says, voice painfully deep, and Zayn dips his head, teeth sharp on Harry’s collarbone, fingers digging into his hips. Harry groans and his hips jerk forward so that his cock presses against Zayn’s through both of their jean shorts.

‘Fuck, Harry.’ He keeps sucking hard at his neck as Harry grinds against with increasing pressure, his breath loud and hot. ‘Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, please.’

‘Don’t talk,’ Harry says again in his strung out voice, breath uneven, and it tears a new rip in Zayn's heart. He fists at Harry’s hair and Harry shudders, groaning a little when Zayn presses down with light pressure, mumbling something Zayn can’t make out.

‘Want your mouth,’ Zayn breathes, pressing harder and feeling his spine shiver when Harry bites at his nipple. His breath tangles in the back of his throat as Harry smudges kisses along his chest, leaving a wet trail, tongue curling over his sternum. ‘Ugh, please –’

Harry shakes his head, lips brushing over Zayn’s pulse. ‘Don’t speak,’ he says again, and his shaking fingers busy themselves with the fly on Zayn’s shorts. His bare chest is rising and falling heavily, the swallows glistening with sweat that Zayn can taste on his lips, salt like the tequila kiss last night.

Zayn closes his eyes, holding his breath as Harry presses a small kiss to the plaster over his hip. _Don’t think I won’t_ is scratched there on his hip forever in a messy approximation of Harry’s handwriting. He thinks of the sharp pull of the needle, the sting of ink meshing with skin, and his cock twitches just as Harry closes his mouth around it.

Harry’s mouth is wet and hot, even better than Zayn remembers, which can’t be possible because Zayn thinks about his mouth _all the time_ and definitely thought he’d blown the whole thing out of proportion. But it is _so_ good, and it’s real, so real, the way he curls his tongue around the head, the way he hollows his cheeks out and dips his head so far down that Zayn can hear the wet splutter as his dick hits the back of his throat

He’s squirming before Harry’s even properly got going with it. His back arches away from the cushions, fingers twisting in Harry’s hair, and it’s just – his mouth is _impossibly_ fucking wet, spit leaking out of the corners, and it makes Zayn writhe on the sofa, eyelashes fluttering.

‘Stay still,’ Harry mutters as he pulls off, fist working over Zayn instead. Zayn wrenches his eyes open to look at him, his red face and sweaty hair, watching as he palms at his own crotch and looks up at Zayn with a mixture of annoyance and astonishment, like he’s not sure this is actually happening. And then he gulps, throat bobbing, before he swallows Zayn back down, pink lips stretching around him. Zayn grabs at his hair with both hands, yanks his head nearly all the way off by his before pushing it down again, grunting when he feels Harry’s throat clench.

Zayn’s eyes close again as Harry grips at his thighs, pliant and whining as Zayn pulls him back by his hair and then pushes him back down farther and farther each time. He’s being rough but he can’t help it, nails digging into Harry’s scalp, groaning and pulling at Harry’s hair in a way that must fucking _hurt_ , but Harry doesn’t complain. Zayn pushes his head down so far he feels Harry’s nose press against his skin, and when Harry moans it actually _sounds_ full, and Zayn can feel it around the head of his cock.

‘You know how fucking _good_ you are?’ Zayn breathes, head tilting back against the armrest, face to the ceiling like he’s receiving a deity. Harry groans, swallows, and Zayn feels it in his toes, in his fingertips, in all the synapses in his brain. ‘Like nobody else, Harry. Fuck.’

Harry makes another bruised, aching noise, pinching Zayn’s thighs and pulling off briefly. He gasps in a deep, raspy breath, spit dribbling from his bottom lip, before taking Zayn back again eagerly, the head of Zayn’s cock bumping against the ridges on the roof of his mouth. ‘Shit, babe, I’m – fuck, so close.’

He flinches in surprise when he feels Harry’s fingers pressing on his jaw, and then inching up to hover over his lips, and Zayn sucks them into his mouth reflexively without opening his eyes. The rough pads of Harry’s fingers scratch against Zayn’s tongue, and he has to resist the urge to bite at them when Harry pulls them out. And then he feels the wet fingers trail over the new bruises on his thighs, teasingly dancing over his skin, down, down, down…

He comes with a whimper when Harry presses a finger inside of him, swearing loudly as he holds Harry’s head down, jerking his hips up so that Harry gags and pulls away with a wet splutter, hot tears bobbing on his waterline.

Zayn’s body slumps, corpse-like, into the sofa. Every inch of him is burning. Lava in his blood, sparklers snapping over his nerves, white-hot charcoal heart thumping helplessly. He can vaguely feel one of Harry’s hands gripping his thigh, the fingers on the other hand gently stroking inside him, and when they try a more purposeful rub Zayn’s hips buck of their own accord, a whine escaping him. It’s uncomfortable, foreign after so long, but a small part of him yearns for it like Harry’s fingers aren’t enough, and he finds himself bearing down even though he’s wincing, eyelashes fluttering.

‘Please,’ Harry breathes, his voice desperate as he withdraws his fingers, and Zayn finds strength from somewhere and blinks his heavy eyelids open.

And _God_ , he wishes he hadn’t as soon as he sees him.

Harry’s kneeling between his legs, shorts pooling at his knees so Zayn can see the hard, damp line of his cock through his boxers. His face is flushed, his mouth red, his hair wild and falling over his face. Zayn won’t ever be able to forget the sore pout of his lips, the wetness around his desperate eyes. He’s so turned on he looks like he’s not even breathing properly. ‘Please, Zayn,’ he says again, and his voice sounds fucking _wrecked_ , throat so sore that Zayn feels himself stirring.

‘Get the stuff,’ Zayn mumbles, hand slipping idly over his scaling stomach. Harry doesn’t need to be asked twice, hauling himself up and nearly toppling over when his shorts drop to his ankles and restrict his gait, but Zayn’s too blissed out to laugh. He just lies there, cheek pressed against the sofa, staring out of the window. The sky is heavy with stars, a formidable amount of them like you don’t see in London, low and almost touchable like fairy-lights on a ceiling. Zayn thinks of the glow-in-the-dark stars Harry had on his ceiling at home, a whole galaxy above them, as he listens to the faraway sounds of Harry upturning his bedroom to find a condom. So much has changed.

And then Harry’s back between his thighs, a condom wrapper between his teeth, lube caught between two fingers as his hands shove Zayn’s legs apart. Zayn feels a heavy thump of love for him, so strong he could cry, and he smiles stupidly at him, reaching up a dizzy hand to stroke Harry’s hair. He’s never seen anyone more beautiful than Harry now, so desperate for it he’s shaking, choking on his own breath as he slicks up his fingers and presses them back into Zayn, eyebrows furrowed as he works hurriedly.

It hurts, but Zayn doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that the noises he’s making are more than a little embarrassing, that he’s squirming against the sofa. Instead, he brushes a bead of sweat from Harry’s temple with his thumb and concentrates on the way his heart is fucking _inflating_. ‘Harry,’ he mumbles, but Harry’s not listening. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and shrugs Zayn’s arm away as he pulls back to roll it on, hair shielding his face. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ Zayn mumbles, smiling serenely. _Maybe you should tell him,_ his brain whispers, drunk on alcohol and Harry, the _I love you_ curling over his tongue, and something else in him sighs _yes_. 'I want to tell –'

‘Turn over,’ Harry interrupts, through gritted teeth. 'Don't speak.'

Zayn obliges, pressing his face against the armrest and looking back over his shoulder at Harry, biting his lip hard. Sweat slips down Zayn’s neck, pooling in his collarbones, damp hair in his eyes. Harry looks at him for a brief moment, temporarily tranquil as he slides his hand gently down Zayn’s spine, their eyes locked. There’s something there, in that look, something unsaid that Harry doesn’t make try to make real, and Zayn tries not to cry out when the moment’s broken by Harry palming at his arse, his cock finally nudging against him. And then – the look on Harry’s face when he presses into him is like nothing Zayn’s ever seen, relief beyond reason, eyelids stuttering, mouth falling open, nose wrinkling when he groans.

For maybe half a minute, Harry fucks into him slowly, groaning softly and running a trembling hand over Zayn’s ribs. And then he pulls back, gripping the armrest by Zayn’s face again, planting one foot on the floor for leverage, and he’s fucking him properly, slamming into him so hard Zayn suddenly can’t breathe. It hurts more than he can remember, but then it has been years since he was fucked, and he’s probably never been fucked like this, the farthest thing from gentle. It’s too hard and much too soon, as though Harry’s sawing him down the middle like some cheap magician, and Zayn knows he’ll be able to feel the phantom ache of him every time he thinks of this night, the scratch of the sofa against his sore skin, Harry holding his sweaty hip with iron-strong fingers, the burning pain of it all. But maybe that’s why Zayn doesn’t stop him, why he chews his lips into his mouth so he won’t yelp when Harry’s hips collide with his, squeezing his eyes shut so he won’t cry. He’d rather die than stop this and cut short the noises Harry’s making, small whimpers that fall in time with the squeak of the sofa shifting against the floorboards.

Harry’s damp forehead falls to Zayn’s shoulder, head wilting like a ragdoll on his neck, eyelashes tickling his skin. ‘I fucking hate you,’ he moans, and Zayn’s so shocked his eyes open in astonishment.

God, something inside of him screams at that. _Imagine I'd said I love you just now. Imagine what would have happened to me, after this._

‘I know,’ Zayn chokes out with tears in his eyes, wincing when Harry scrabbles for his waist, nails accidentally scratching into the skin, before he grunts and his knee seems to give way, slipping and pressing Zayn flat against the sofa. The new angle knocks all the breath out of Zayn, like the sudden thump of an airbag after a car crash, but this time it feels so good, so so so so good, the friction of their bodies joining, the insistent punch against his prostate. ‘Oh, _fuck fuck fuck_.’

Harry, enthused by the encouragement, fucks into him harder, and Zayn clings to the cushions, reminded of how the feeling of Harry doing this to him feels better than anything in the world. The ecstatic, scorching burn ignites in his insides again, blood rushing to his cock, the room clouding up in smoke as his eyelids droop.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he seems to be saying, spit pooling against the sofa cushions, but his own voice sounds alien and there’s too much blood gushing behind his ears to be sure.

Zayn remembers, so many years ago, the clumsy and unpractised sex they used to have. Experimental and over far, far too quickly. The self-conscious giggles and the ‘have I done this right? Does it feel okay?’ and the embarrassment afterwards, remembering the noises and the faces they made, the things they said. Once Harry came in his jeans when they were only kissing. Once Zayn cried because it hurt so much.

This – this is nothing like that. Zayn can’t remember _ever_ having sex like this. Everything should feel wrong – both of them scorching hot and slick with sweat, pain and heat and friction engulfing him – but it feels better than anything. He feels like he might go up in flames. He swears loudly and reaches back to tug on Harry’s hair as hard as he can, and the sofa groans against the floorboards as Harry’s hips jolt.

‘ _God_ , I – I hate you Zayn.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You can’t start fires in people and fuck off,’ Harry spits hoarsely, mouth wet against the tattoo on the back of Zayn’s neck, but it comes out like a sob. ‘That’s not fair.’

His hips snap forward so hard Zayn can’t breathe, and it takes longer than it should before he’s able to gasp again, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I’ll never forgive you. Not ever.’

‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Fuck you.’ Harry lets out a strangled moan and jolts, pressing his damp face into Zayn’s neck, like he’s hiding. ‘Fuck you.’

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn stands at the window in only his boxers, hands shaking as he tries to relight his cigarette. He spares another glance at Harry, but he’s still lying on the sofa and Zayn can’t see anything other than his feet hanging over the edge.

Everything in him is rattling, like a box pushed down the stairs. His eyelids are fluttering like crazy, his stomach muscles jumping, his hands trembling, and ash tumbles from his cigarette to the floor, pooling in tiny little snowflakes at his feet.

He’s just had Harry for the first time in years, and all it’s done is make him want more. He wants Harry again and again, wants to lick him out and fuck him, wants to come on his face, wants to kiss him for hours and hours. He wants to take a picture of him, spread out naked and flushed, so he can wallpaper it around his fucking house. He wants to text someone, _anyone_ , just so he can look back and have written proof that this actually happened. And he wants more than that – he wants to go on dates with him and wake up next to him and bring him to all his family gatherings and lie on the sofa with him after work and kiss him awake. They’ve just opened a can of worms he’s been trying to sellotape shut for years. He wants everything at once, so much Harry that he drowns in it and never resurfaces.

Gleeful hope is snapping inside him like popping candy, a buoyant kind of elation that he can feel right down to his toes tensing against the hardwood floor. He and Harry – he thought this would never happen again. He thought he’d never see him like this again.

It curls in his brain like smoke, the thought that this could amount to something. It’s a wispy, tentative idea, which Zayn doesn’t allow to take full form, but it’s there all the same, a ghost of an idea. He thinks of Harry’s teeth on his neck, the way Harry’s lips stretched over his cock, and he thinks of having that in the morning before work, on their own sofa at home, in a big, soft bed that belongs to them both. He feels like he’s been punched right in the chest, and he shivers with it, hope pulling at him like little tweezers have got hold of his insides.

He throws his cigarette out of the window and runs a hand through his hair, grinning like a fucking idiot. Harry’s still on the sofa, unmoving, very possibly asleep and very probably still naked. The thought stirs low in his stomach, want and happiness and relief blurring together like packet cake mixture. Zayn crosses the room towards him; he can kiss him awake, run his hands all over him, tease Harry back to consciousness with his tongue –

‘Nick will be so sad,’ Harry says quietly when Zayn’s about a foot away. Zayn stops dead still, almost comically, body swaying with the suddenness of it.

_No, no, no, no, no._

‘What?’ he croaks.

‘He asked me if something would happen with us, and I said no. He knew. I fucking lied to his face.’

Zayn closes his eyes.

‘Harry, please,’ he whispers, and he has the abrupt sensation of being pushed off a cliff, stomach jerking before the rest of him, heart trailing behind.

Harry doesn’t say anything else, and Zayn rounds the sofa to look at him, body on autopilot. Harry’s lying there, shielded from the light coming through the window by the back of the sofa, but even in shadow Zayn can see his chest is still pink from exertion, lips swollen, hair a mess. He’s staring at the ceiling, but there’s a tear slipping sluggishly down his cheek.

Zayn feels his heart break, very, very slowly, the shock of each rupture tearing all the way through him, cracking apart bit by bit by bit.

‘I – I feel so awful,’ Harry says, voice breaking. He looks at Zayn with big watery eyes, so desperately sad Zayn nearly sobs, and swipes a palm across his face, swallowing down a sob of his own. ‘Fuck. _Fuck_ , Zayn.’

‘No – no, it’s not like you knew this would happen,’ Zayn manages, but his voice betrays him and he knows he sounds wobbly. He sits down heavily in the armchair over by the TV and tries not to let panic overwhelm him, but it is, swallowing him and the entire apartment whole.

How has this happened? He just came in Harry’s mouth, just let Harry fuck him, just managed to convince himself that this might finally be it for them, and now he’s sitting here fucking _comforting_ him.

Zayn digs his nails into his palms. ‘Look, maybe you don’t have to tell him –’

‘Of course I have to tell him!’ Harry squawks, hands over his face. ‘He’s my boyfriend!’

‘Yeah, but –’

‘It’s the right thing to do, Zayn.’

‘Just think, though –’

‘I’ve been with him for years –’

‘Well maybe you should have thought of that before you fucked me!’ Zayn snaps, anger corkscrewing through his throat and snaking up to press against the back of his eyes. ‘For fuck’s sake, Harry –’

‘What?’ Harry shouts back, voice wet as he sits up and glares at Zayn. ‘What do you want me to say?’

Zayn doesn’t know. He has no idea what he wants now that almost every possibility has been snatched away from him, and he sits there for a moment, completely bewildered, before he stands up abruptly.

‘I can’t be here,’ he mumbles, looking around for his clothes. Something inside him is screaming for his escape, like always, and he can’t look at Harry as he pulls a t-shirt over his sweaty shoulders.

For a moment, there’s silence. ‘Zayn,’ Harry says, voice low. ‘What are you doing?’

Zayn doesn’t answer him. He wipes his face with the neck of his t-shirt and looks around for some shorts.

‘You’re leaving?’ Harry asks, louder. ‘Are you leaving?’

‘I don’t know,’ Zayn mutters stupidly, even though of course he’s leaving. It’s what he always does.

‘Fucking _hell_ , you prick.’

‘What, you want me to _stay_?’ Zayn says to the wall, lacking the strength to turn around. ‘Stay and listen to this crap?’

‘Are you being serious?’ Harry barks, shrill, and Zayn hears the floorboards creek as he stands up. ‘You thought we’d skip off into the sunset, Zayn?’

He might as well have punched Zayn clean across the face. ‘Stop –’

‘One shag and you thought –’

‘Shut up, Harry.’

‘That’s not how it works, you idiot.’ He grips Zayn’s arm with tight fingers, standing right behind him, so close Zayn can feel breath on the back of his neck. ‘Don’t leave. Please.’

Zayn shakes him off roughly, ignoring the fresh surge of tears. ‘Stop it.’

‘For once in your fucking life, stay to see the damage.’ His voice is uneven, like he’s trying not to cry, or scream. ‘If you leave, we can’t – things will never be the same. I’m serious.’

‘What kind of fucking childish bullshit is that,’ Zayn spits petulantly, shrugging Harry off every time he reaches for him. ‘Threatening me, now, are we? Brilliant.’

‘It’s not a threat,’ Harry says, voice wobbling more perceptibly now. ‘I mean it. I’ve had enough of you running away, Zayn. I’m not gonna let it happen anymore.’

‘Why not? Why does it matter?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘No, tell me!’ Zayn yells breathlessly, surprising himself with it, turning around to face him. Harry blinks at him, wide eyed. ‘Why the fuck does it matter?’

‘Come off it.’

‘ _Why?_ Who cares about me, right? You’ve got your sodding boyfriend. Just let me go.’

Harry takes a shaky breath. ‘Because!’

‘Because what?’

‘Because you’re my best friend, Zayn!’ Harry says loudly. ‘And you went to uni and dropped me and then you left me over and over again and you – you broke my fucking _heart_.’

Harry takes a shaky breath, mouth wobbling, and Zayn feels like he’s been slapped.

‘I’m sorry,’ Zayn manages to choke out, but it’s far too late, and it’s not enough.

‘That’s why it matters. And why I’ve found someone else, all right?’ Harry says, holding his hands up like Zayn’s pointing a gun at his forehead. ‘I’m done with just being _there_ while you fuck off and come back when it’s convenient –’

‘No, that’s not –’

‘That’s why it matters, Zayn!’ Harry intercepts sharply. ‘Because you didn’t want me and he did, okay?’

Zayn recoils, stunned. ‘I always wanted you!’

‘Not enough to stay the whole night.’

‘That’s not true!’ Zayn shakes his head wildly. ‘That’s – that’s not –’

‘It is true. I’m sick of always crawling back. I was so in love with you and everyone knew and I’m sick of being stupid. I’m sick of it.’

Zayn’s stomach twists. He’s not said that before. _In love with you._ ‘Harry –’

‘And it’s not just about how I feel,’ he goes on, over the top of Zayn, swallowing harshly. ‘It’s not just because of that, it’s – it’s because –’

‘Because what?’

He fists a hand in his hair, not meeting Zayn’s eye now. ‘Because –’

‘ _What_?’

‘I just –’

Zayn steps forward, heart in his mouth. ‘Because _what!_ ’’

Harry finally looks at him, steel in his eyes, fucking _daring_ him. ‘Because he loves me.’

 _And I love you!_ Zayn nearly shouts. His mouth opens, the words curling against his tongue, but at the last second –

Nothing.

Zayn swallows and closes his eyes, wet eyelashes brushing against skin, and an excruciating silence stretches out between them. Harry’s daring Zayn to jump, to say it, and he won’t, because he’s not sure how much more his heart can take before it gives up entirely, stutters to a miserable halt and dies along with the rest of him.

He could him to leave Nick. He knows he could say it with conviction, that he could easily drop to his knees and beg Harry to be with him, but now, given the chance – he can’t. This isn’t a Rom Com, it’s real life. People can’t say things like that in real life because if they’re shot down they won’t be able to survive it, the bullet holes of rejection never properly scarring over, going manky and infected with time until eventually they become everything you are. The words dissolve inside his mouth like wet flakes of paper, his courage failing him, all hope dying.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Only a few hours later, in the rose gold light of early morning, Zayn wakes up and goes for a cigarette outside, dipping around the corner and finding comfort in the cool brick against the back of his neck. He stayed because Harry asked him to, but that doesn't mean he slept well, curled up on the sofa while Harry had the bed. Zayn ends up finishing his packet.

And for some reason, he’s not entirely surprised that when he gets back, a pint of milk and some apology muffins clutched in his hand, Harry’s gone. He woke up to an empty bed for the thousandth time, the cold, bitter sting of empty sheets, and he's gone. He didn't know Zayn was coming back. Zayn can't blame him, but it doesn’t stop him from sending a billion frantic texts to almost everyone he knows, excluding Harry, asking what on earth he’s meant to do with himself now. It doesn’t stop him from nearly punching the wall in frustration, from curling up against the shape Harry left in the sheets, pressing his nose into the pillow where Harry’s hair had been.

It’s a long time – years, really – before they speak to each other again.

  
****

**_and right from the start, you know i got you_  
Saturday, 1st July 2017 ******

 

 

Zayn emerges from his bedroom wide-eyed, underwear hastily shoved on and barely covering everything, and points accusingly at Liam.

‘You prick!’ he spits.

Liam Payne, the self-proclaimed Straightest Man in the World, sits at the kitchen table as his girlfriend wipes a mud-coloured facemask off his cheeks with a cotton pad. He blinks at Zayn, rearranging his guilty face into a mask of astonishment.

‘Good morning to you too, Zayn!’ Liam says with pinched eyebrows, feigning indignation.

‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Zayn hisses, storming past them to yank open the fridge. ‘I’ve missed the train now!’

Of course, there’s nothing in the fridge except Sophia’s bloody jellies – for reasons unbeknownst to Zayn, she’s become obsessed with making various jellies, virgin and alcoholic, all the colours of the rainbow – and he pulls one out begrudgingly. It’s a Russian Roulette of whether or not the chosen jelly has vodka in it, but at this point he wouldn’t mind.

‘I didn’t want to come in!’ Liam whines. ‘I didn’t know whether you were – you know –’

‘We wouldn’t have invited you to join the party, if that’s what you’re afraid of,’ Zayn says moodily, stabbing his spoon with vicious vigour at his jelly and shoving it into his mouth. ‘If we were awake. Which we weren’t, clearly.’

‘He was just trying to prevent a scene,’ Sophia says soothingly, swiping another cotton pad with across Liam’s face. Some facemask gets in Liam’s eye, but he stoically blinks it out, not daring to complain. ‘Don’t be angry with him.’

Zayn swallows a lump of jelly whole. It’s pomegranate and apple, definitely alcoholic. Brilliant. ‘I’m gonna be so bloody late.’

‘You should have set an alarm,’ Liam says helpfully.

‘I did! It got turned off.’

‘What do you mean, _it got turned off_?’

‘Craig turned it off.’

Is his name Craig? It’s definitely not Craig. Zayn tips the last of the jelly down his throat and throws the bowl and spoon into the sink.

Sophia frowns. ‘I thought his name was Callum?’

‘Maybe. Probably.’ Zayn leans against the counter and thinks about last night, feeling a familiar, queasy kind of regret. He’s still not used to it, the facelessness, the anonymity of one-night-stands. Before this year, his sex life had hardly been anything to shout about. But this year, having _finally_ moved out of the flat in Brixton and away from his sister, accepting his role as the eternal third-wheel with Liam and Sophia in their two-bed flat in Vauxhall, Zayn is, well –

‘You massive slag, Zayn,’ Sophia laughs, shaking her head fondly.

He’s enjoying being single, is all. All his friends are taken, and he’s relishing his lack of attachment. It’s great, being single. Especially being the _only_ single one. It’s great.

Zayn sticks his tongue out at her. She’s still in her nightdress, hair piled high on her head, and she gives Liam a satisfied pat on the top of his head, his face red and shiny like a baby fresh from a bath. Zayn stares at them and momentarily aches for warm touches, for someone like her, for affection that doesn’t start and end with promises of a hurried orgasm.

‘Don’t you have somewhere to be?’ Liam pipes up after brief silence, and Zayn jolts. _Yes he does. Fuck, yes he does._

‘Oh, God, I’m gonna be so late,’ he says again despairingly, springing into action, hands flailing. ‘Li, do you still have that tie –?’

‘I set it out on the sofa.’

‘Do I have time to shower?’

‘No, absolutely not.’

‘Oh bloody _fuck_ , all right. Soph you’ll drive me to the station, yeah?’

‘If you get your arse into gear,’ Sophia says, kicking his arse when he hurries past back to his bedroom. ‘Careful not to wake up Callum!’

Zayn sticks his middle finger up at her over his shoulder, takes a deep breath, and re-enters the gloomy darkness of his bedroom.

It smells of weed and sex, a combination that should ignite some kind of excitement or maybe even triumph, but instead feels strangely depressing, like looking at photos on Facebook of what was apparently a great night but you can’t remember a single moment of it.

Callum is spread eagled across Zayn’s bed, snoring hideously without a single care in the world, and Zayn stares at him. Sturdy, broad-shouldered, fair-haired. He’s got an air of Harry’s friend Niall Horan about him which makes Zayn shudder in repulsion and turn away, but all in all, he’s nice looking. A nice enough guy, too, Zayn remembers, who works in retail management and has a dog called Shelly. But he’s not…

Zayn doesn’t let himself think about it as he pulls his suit on clumsily in the darkness, swearing when he trips over the ankles of his trousers and falls against the wardrobe. The wispy tendrils of an incoming hangover curl by his temples, and his empty stomach roars in protest, unsatisfied by the vodka jelly, but he ignores his body, half-heartedly spraying deodorant under his shirt as an afterthought before shuffling from the room and shutting the door.

He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to Callum. He wonders whether he ever mentioned that he has a wedding to go to today. Probably not.

Liam’s waiting in the living room wielding a tie. ‘For you,’ he says with a smile.

‘Thanks,’ Zayn says, smiling back weakly. Liam pats him on the elbow somewhat awkwardly, but his face is concerned and Zayn can’t look at him.

‘You look good, bro,’ he affirms, which isn’t true but Zayn appreciates it anyway. ‘Don’t worry about – you know. Har–’

‘I’m not,’ Zayn lies loftily, and Liam nods, not pushing it. Zayn’s not sure how someone the same age as him can feel about a hundred years older, but sometimes Zayn feels like Liam and Sophia’s child and he’s not sure what to do with that.

Sophia rounds the corner, car keys in hand, and grins brightly. ‘Ready, Zayn?’

‘Yep.’

‘Got everything?’

‘Yep.’

‘Got your phone, yeah?’

‘ _Yes_ , Liam.’

‘Come on then, Casanova.’ Sophia puts her arm around his waist and drags him towards the door, adding over her shoulder, ‘Oh, Liam, get rid of Callum, will you?’

‘What, _me_?’ Liam squawks in terror, tripping after them. ‘Oh God, no I can’t, Soph, I don’t –’

Sophia shuts the door in his face.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn makes a friend at the train station, a tortoiseshell cat who coils around Zayn’s ankles and mewls up at him until he abandons his cigarette to pick her up. She purrs enthusiastically in his arms, clawing happily at the lapels of his suit jacket, and Zayn is suddenly head over heels in love with her, a fierce kind of love which makes playdough of his heart and fills him with fear. What on _earth_ is she doing at a train station? If she jumps down onto the track she’ll be flattened, or someone might accidentally kick her as they rush to get on the train, or maybe she’ll accidentally _get on_ the train and end up commuting to somewhere horrible…

He thinks of her roaming the streets of Middlesbrough, all alone, and something not far from terror clenches around his heart.

Zayn’s clutching her to his chest and carrying her through the station before he can stop himself, sweating in his suit jacket. He takes her to the ticket booth but they direct him to the manager’s office, and once there they deliberately misunderstand him, insisting for a long time that she’s _his_ cat and he’s palming her off, as though Zayn got to the train station and suddenly remembered that he doesn’t actually need his cat to accompany him to a wedding.

Eventually, what feels like hours later, they manage to extract the cat off Zayn’s chest and he _finally_ rushes back to the platform and – he’s missed his train. Again.

Well _fuck._

The train to Cheshire comes only once an hour, so Zayn resigns himself to a long resigns himself to lunch at Greggs and angrily demolishes a chicken pasty, managing to get pastry grease all over his suit trousers. He now has sweat, cat fur, and grease all over his wedding outfit. His hair is too long and tangled from last night, he is unshaven, and he smells of stale alcohol and cigarettes.

He goes to ring his mum to let her know he’ll be late, but realises with a loud wail of despair that he did actually leave his phone at home, just like Liam knew he would. An old lady in a tartan skirt limps over to check if he’s okay, and he can only nod up at her, crumbs collecting in his lap, a pastry flake inexplicably caught in his eyebrow.

The clock on the wall tells him it is 1:22. Harry will be waiting in the church, hands twisting nervously. Anne will probably be fussing about, adjusting his tie, tucking his hair behind his ear. Zayn’s parents and sisters are squashed together in one of the pews, anxiously checking their phones and looking over their shoulders, waiting on his arrival.

Zayn rolls himself a cigarette and closes his eyes.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

‘Oh, and here comes the prodigal at last! Where have you _been_?’

Zayn throws himself into the seat next to Waliyha, dishevelled and sweaty and damp from the drizzle outside. He stepped off the train, took one look at the bleak Northern sky, even on this hot day in July, and bitterly thought _good._

‘Missed the train,’ Zayn says bluntly. He reaches straight for the wine at the centre of the table and pours himself a glass. The entire table is staring at him, but he pretends not to notice.

‘You were meant to be here three hours ago, Zayn!’

‘All right, pack it in, Mum.’

He drains his glass grimly and then wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, patting Safaa’s knee with his free hand. ‘You okay, babe?’

She nods, wide-eyed and bemused.

‘You smell like an ashtray,’ Doniya hisses from Safaa’s other side, glaring at him.

‘You didn’t have time to wash your hair?’ Waliyha asks with a scathing look.

‘You could have called!’ his mum barks, face furious.

Zayn blinks at the tablecloth and then looks up to meet the unwavering gaze of his father. He’s all dolled up in the suit he saves for important meetings and funerals, black tie looped carefully around his neck, brown skin clean-shaven. He stares back at Zayn with dark, unreadable eyes, and then shakes his head, just once.

_Disappointment._

‘I’m going to find Louis,’ Zayn mumbles, standing up abruptly. His sisters hiss at him, but he’s had enough of them already and it’s been all of five minutes. He stalks away from the table without another look at his dad, shoulders hunched defensively, feet scuffing against the floor.

The reception is in a cavernous, vaguely emotionless refurbished barn. Fairy lights have been strung in an attempt to create some sort of artificial atmosphere, but the walls are white and the furniture is white and the flowers are white and there’s something depressing about it. Zayn wonders whether Harry will be in white too and snorts at the image of him in the centre of this clinical space like a member of N Sync in a new music video.

He glances over at the top table, elevated above the masses, and finds him sandwiched between Gemma and Nick, grinning down at the starter that Zayn’s family – all the way on table 39 – haven’t been served yet. He’s wearing a navy suit, thank God, and his hair is so long now it falls in loose curls way past his shoulders, brushing against his neck, his cheek. He looks… he looks well.

Happy, and well.

Zayn swallows and dips his head before they catch eye contact, turning away.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

The reception drags on in a mist of alcohol and self-pity. Zayn engages himself in a fun game of furiously avoiding all of the guests he'd rather not talk to, a hefty list which includes his parents, his sisters, Harry, Nick, Louis, and most especially, Gemma Styles, whose furious glare made him wince from 30 metres away when he accidentally met her steely gaze.

How has this happened? He’s alone at the bar, body slouching with multiple empty glasses in front of him, sulking miserably. He'd thought Louis would be his safe haven, his one reliable companion in this hellish blaze of an evening, but Zayn had thrown himself into the seat next to Lou, reaching for the wine, only to find himself ousted just moments later by none other than Eleanor fucking Calder.

After years and years of relentless pursuit, turning up at her hall with wine and a desperate smile, following her to lectures, drunkenly declaring his love to anyone who’ll listen, she's actually fallen in love with him back. Apparently they’ve been shagging since Louis’ last year at university, which is news to Zayn and an especially massive shock seeing as Louis has the biggest mouth in the world. She’s sitting here now, blinking at him dreamily while he throws lettuce leaves at the stranger sitting opposite them and spills his drink all over the starched table cloth. The demure, soft-haired, wide-eyed, living proof of the fact that decade-long adoration can actually amount to something.

Life's fucking unfair.

So he's alone.

That’s fine.

It’s been fine for a long time. He's been on a few dates over the course of a year, and some of those dates have multiplied into two or three months worth of far too expensive dinners and forced conversation and mediocre sex. And that’s fine.

The few times the sex had been all right, maybe even good if Zayn's being generous, he's had to cut them loose immediately. He can't give them – or himself – false hope. Good sex sometimes disguises itself as deep feeling, puts on the mask of love and dances around in your insides. He knows this because that's exactly what happened with Harry. Sort of. He's not making that mistake again.

Nothing feels quite right, anyway. Not like the way Harry touches him. The soft heat of his hand against Zayn’s back in Barcelona. The wetness of his mouth against Zayn’s shoulder. His perfect awful lovely mouth.

He’s fine. Hungover, and drunk, and fine.

Zayn distracts himself by ordering another drink. There’s nothing left to do with himself but get hammered and hope that he passes out in a toilet somewhere so Harry doesn’t get a chance to see how alone and stupid he looks.

‘You cut a sad figure,’ a voice to his right sneers, and he looks over with a stony face, mouth set in irritation. A girl wearing a tight black floor length dress is scowling at him, her long, braided hair pulled back tightly from her face, nose embellished with a septum ring.

‘Do I look like a give a fuck?’ Zayn says rudely, turning back to his glass. _Who the fuck is this?_ And then, with an element of panic – _Is this flirting? Does she want him to buy her a drink?_

‘Aren't you just a regular Greek tragedy, getting drunk on your own at a wedding.’ She closes in quickly, like a shark, and gives an evident sniff. ‘Or are you just drowning a hangover?’

‘No,’ Zayn snaps, although he is, because he refused to eat the remains of Eleanor's goat's cheese salad and he's been at the bar since the main course. His stomach rumbles sadly, berating the meagre allowance of chicken pasty and jelly.

‘You smell of yesterday's vodka.’

‘And you should mind your own fucking business!’

She cocks her head to the side curiously. ‘Oh. Don’t tell me you’re a spurned ex-lover of the bride?’

Zayn sniffs. ‘No,’ he says, and then against his own better judgement, because really he just wants an excuse to feel sorry for himself, ‘her brother, actually.’

‘Ah,’ she says, staring unabashedly now as Zayn pours the rest of his cocktail down his throat. ‘And now he's...’

‘Got someone new, yeah.’ Zayn licks his lips and shrugs. ‘Tough shit for me, blah blah. I've heard it all.’

She shrugs, and then smiles. ‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

Zayn studies her. All black to a wedding takes some guts. Her skin is brown, smooth, with light tattoos laced over the insides over her elbows. Her face is hard and angular, but when she smiles she’s undeniably pretty, plump lips stretching over white, uneven teeth.

Zayn smiles back.

‘You’re kind of rude, you know,’ he says, looking down at his glass. ‘You can’t just go up to people telling them they stink.’

‘It’s your own fault for turning up to a wedding like this,’ she answers sharply, and _fuck, she’s scary. Scary and hot. The most evil and exciting of combinations_. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

He sighs and stirs the ice around inside his empty glass. ‘Well. Gemma already hates me. Gives her more reason to, I suppose.’

And it’s true, Gemma does hate him. He saw her about six months ago, a bitingly cold January evening in London, the air misty and frigid. She was walking towards him on the Millennium Bridge, all bundled up in a big coat and scarf, and Zayn waved, rushing forward to hug her and grinning like an idiot.

‘Congratulations, Gem!’ he said, beaming. Even if he’d had to find out about it on Facebook, he was happy for her and Robert, although when they started going out two years ago Harry said he didn’t like him, too pompous and short, and then – then Gemma had slapped him with her handbag.

‘I’ve heard all about your little fucking stunt in Barcelona!’ she shrieked, much to the surprise of the innocent bystanders making their way home from work, tourists taking pictures of St. Paul’s whipping around to stare at them. ‘Do you find it _impossible_ to let my brother try and have a life without you!’

Zayn recoiled, half in surprise and half in terror, but once set loose Gemma has never been one to hold back.

‘You have no idea of the shit I have to put up with from him!’ she snapped accusingly, pointing at Zayn. ‘It’s a broken fucking record that’s getting really fucking old, and now you – now you’ve gone and bloody jammed it for all of eternity! I was ready to bloody punch Harry next time he blathers on about you, and now – now I’m getting really fucking sick of it.’ She paused for breath, and Zayn just stared at her, wide eyed. ‘What about Nick? Did the pair of you even _think_ about Nick? God, I could fucking kill him, I really could.’

Confused and also quite frightened, Zayn shook his head and backed away from her. ‘Don’t be hard on him,’ he heard himself saying, a voice separate from himself, like some weird out of body experience. ‘He felt so awful.’

Gemma had blinked at him, suddenly still. ‘What?’

She, too, is that deadly combination of attractive and frightening. Zayn has always thought so, and even when he was younger he found himself intimidated by Harry’s family. As a unit, they’re pertinacious walkers, striding out into the hills rain or shine with wellies pulled up to their knees and hair whipping them in the face like characters in a Brontë novel. They go on skiing holidays, and camping in the Lake District, and as children, ate vegetables voluntarily. They’re fiercely competitive over games of Scrabble, rather than fighting over who gets to sit in the front of the car like Zayn’s family when their mum took them anywhere. Zayn’s family come together exclusively in front of the TV or over the dinner table, and the only holiday they’ve ever been on was to Center Parks when Zayn was fifteen and they’d had to come home early because Wali got food poisoning.

So Zayn stared at her, more than a little frightened, and considered whether saving himself was more important than saving Harry.

‘It was, uh.’ He sniffed and looked over the black water of the Thames. ‘It was me. I kissed him and did – did whatever. Yeah? I was the one that started it. And I know you’re mad at me, and that’s – fine. Just… don’t blame him for – for what I’ve done.’

Gemma just looked at him, and for a moment Zayn thought she might hug him, weirdly. But then she shook her head, rolling her eyes, and walked off in the direction of St Paul’s, not looking back. The next time Zayn heard from her, it was a wedding invitation.

_For Zayn Malik and his guest._

Zayn blinks, hard, and looks at his companion, her sharp face. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

‘Zoë,’ she says. ‘You?’

‘Zayn.’

‘Double Z,’ she remarks, and Zayn smiles wider than he should.

‘Cool,’ he says idiotically, still grinning – because it is cool, like a superhero duo – and then realises he’s being embarrassing and hurriedly rearranges his face. ‘How do you know Gemma?’

‘I don’t. I work with Robert.’

Zayn frowns. ‘So you’re a –’

‘Lawyer, yeah.’ She glares at him. ‘And what?’

‘Nothing,’ Zayn says quickly, but he’s surprised. Not just because he expected her to do something arty and cool, something in media, but more that he wouldn’t want to sit down with someone as terrifying as her and plead his innocence. He gets the feeling lawyers aren’t meant to be so horrifyingly deadpan, for fear that they might intimidate the jury. ‘Nothing.’

She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes at him, but the corners of her mouth are twitching like she’s trying not to smile. He stares at her mouth for a bit too long, and when he glances up again, Zayn has the distinct feeling of being eyed up predatorily, like she’s considering whether or not to eat him. ‘Are you gonna buy me a drink then, Zayn?’ she asks bluntly.

Zayn chokes on his own spit, eyes widening nervously. ‘Oh, I – um –’

She grins, and even that’s mildly terrifying, like she’s baring her teeth. ‘I don’t bite, you know.’

Zayn knows she’s joking and so laughs weakly, a bit of saliva falling out of his mouth which he scrubs away hastily, trying not to look self-conscious. He’s regressed back to his awkward teenage self, nervous around anyone but Louis, staring sadly at girls – and boys, which confused him – from the corner of the room at parties and clutching his plastic cup like a stress ball.

Zoë keeps looking at him, awaiting a response, and Zayn glances around the room, as though checking whether they’re being watched. He finds Harry before he’s aware that he was looking for him, still sitting on that top table between Nick and his sister, and his heart sinks.

Some dark, mean part of Zayn wishes that Harry looked terrible. Despite everything that’s happened between them, they’re still meant to be best friends, and not speaking to your best friend for a whole year should have some kind of effect, shouldn’t it? Zayn can feel it, at least, a suffocating weight on his chest that stops him sleeping sometimes. Not often, just – sometimes. Sometimes he thinks he might cry when he sees something that reminds him of Harry, _Dark Side of the Moon_ on the shelf in his bedroom, Liam and Soph’s copy of _Grease_ under the TV, the tattoo on his own hip.

Harry smiles at Gemma, skin creasing at the corners of his eyes, and Zayn sees him squeeze her hand. Her hair is shockingly purple against the pale cream of her dress as she leans in to kiss his cheek, and Harry’s grin widens.

Zayn thinks of his own unwashed hair, the stained suit, the stubble, the dark shadows under his eyes. He stares very hard at the floor.

‘I, um,’ he starts, and when he finds the courage to look at Zoë, she already looks disheartened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles pathetically, eyes stinging. There’s no excuse at all, but he still tries to fish for one, a lump the size of his fist blocking up his throat. ‘I just – sorry. I think I need some air. Sorry.’

‘Okay,’ Zoë says, looking away from him for the first time in what feels like hours.

‘Sorry,’ Zayn mutters again, but he’s already walking away.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn somehow finds the exit and stumbles out, tripping over his own feet.

It’s quite late, probably evening now, and there’s a steady warmth in the air that feels vaguely tropical without a sun in the sky to justify it. The rain has stopped and the air is still, light but in a grey, washed out, 5 am kind of way. A starless sky, empty and bland, and in that way _sad_ , like a big wall painted stark white with nothing hung on it. Zayn can’t stand a bare white wall. Even more depressingly, an immense army of cars are arranged in the yard in front of him, big black off-road beasts and sweet little two-doors and dozens of people carriers.

It’s like looking at the future, all those people carriers. One day all his friends will have them, shuttling their hoards of children to Saturday picnics and days out to the swimming pool and the zoo and the cinema. And Zayn will be – what? Living in Liam and Sophia’s basement, that weird man their kids call Uncle Zayn even though he’s clearly of no relation? Working at the Institute everyday, using his savings to buy the hundreds of kids his friends and sisters have produced birthday presents, Christmas presents, Eid presents?

He swallows down the sadness and reaches into his pockets of his trousers, searching for a cigarette. He thinks of last night as he rolls a fag with shaking fingers, thinks of the hopeful smile he gave to Connor – no, Callum – across the bar. Bit his lip, glanced up through his eyelashes, purposefully pressed their hips together. _You don’t find love in a bar, though,_ Zayn thinks, licking the paper and scolding himself for last night’s optimism. _That’s television love. Real love takes years to grow and ten times as long to die._

Zayn props his cigarette on his lower lip as he fishes for his lighter, hair tangling in his eyelashes as he pats himself down. He’s shaky from too much sugar in the cocktails and not enough food or sleep, and he feels distantly nauseous too, a churning in his stomach that he chooses to ignore.

He can’t find his fucking lighter, and with a sigh he strides around the barn in search of another escapee, gravel crunching under his feet. There’s some clapping and hooting from inside and Zayn wonders idly whether he’s missing something important, but there’s no time to worry about that now because he rounds the corner and finds himself feet away from Nick Grimshaw.

Zayn inadvertently lets out a weird strangled noise and flails on the spot, stumbling backwards and then crashing into the wall of the barn. Nick looks over at him, immediately colouring with irritation, and Zayn’s own face reddens too, looking around wildly for some form of help.

‘Sorry,’ he splutters, and Nick just stares at him for a beat before turning back around.

He considers turning and sprinting back to the reception, or maybe just down the driveway and to the train station and never, ever returning to human civilisation. But then, the longer he stands there … he does actually _really_ want a cigarette, and Nick’s already seen him, so – fuck it. Nick’s as skinny as he is, maybe skinnier, so if he suddenly decides to deck Zayn, it won’t be much of a fight. What’s left to lose, anyway? He’d probably let Nick knock him out at this point.

‘Hi,’ Zayn says, cringing instantly at how falsely cheery his voice sounds.

Nick’s foot taps against the floor, cigarette burning by his side. ‘Hi, Zayn,’ he says mechanically.

‘Do you, uh, have a lighter I could borrow?’

Nick stares at him in disbelief, waiting for the punch line, and when Zayn tries a self-deprecating smile, Nick mutters something under his breath and reaches for his lighter, offering it to him with an outstretched arm.

‘Thanks,’ Zayn says, blinking at him, and all he can think is, _your boyfriend had my come in his mouth and he fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe and he fucking loved it._

Silence stretches between them. Zayn sucks on his cigarette and tries not to stare at Nick, but he can’t help it. Still reedy and pale, Nick stands with his body positioned away from Zayn, as though avoiding a camera, scowling uncomfortably at the floor. Without the overwhelming smile that Zayn’s come to associate with him, he seems like a different man entirely, too gangly, limbs floppy, hair wilting.

‘How are you?’ Zayn asks ingratiatingly. He has no motivation to build bridges with Nick now that he and Harry aren’t speaking, but maybe he’s more than a bit drunk, and maybe he does feel bad. He thinks of Harry leaning over him, skin glistening with sweat, black tattoos on his chest shining, hair sticking to his forehead, whispering ‘ _Please_ ’.

He definitely feels bad.

‘Oh, I’m just fine,’ Nick says flatly, looking out over the field. He doesn’t reciprocate the question, just stands there, surly and silent, making Zayn suffer.

‘How’s work? Still at the label?’

‘Yep, still there.’

‘Any good new clients?’

Nick’s jaw tightens, and Zayn knows he’d rather be anywhere but here, engaging in awkward small talk with Zayn like they’re old pals. Nick runs a hand through his hair, a plethora of bracelets rattling on his wrist, and visibly collects himself.

‘Yeah, yeah, you know. The usual.’ He pauses, exhaling smoke slowly. ‘I’ve been promoted.’

‘Oh wow! Congratulations!’ Zayn chimes, genuinely. He has a sudden urge to hug Nick, because he feels like that’s the least he can do, and takes a step forward before realising that would be entirely inappropriate and so changes his mind, dancing awkwardly on the spot. Nick glances at him shiftily from the corner of his eye.

‘Cheers.’

‘So what do you do now?’

‘Artist Relations Executive.’

‘Oh. What did you do before?’

‘Uh. Same thing. Just wasn’t an executive.’

‘Oh right.’

A stale pause hangs between them. Zayn’s head is spinning with the alcohol and the nicotine and the uncomfortable look on Nick’s face, and he has the distinct feeling that the world is turning upside down and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

‘How’s Harry?’ Zayn asks before he can stop himself, spitting it out quickly like Nick may miss it if he says it fast.

He doesn’t. He snaps his head over to look at Zayn so quickly it’s unnerving, like a soldier called to attention. He stares at Zayn incredulously, which Zayn supposes is fair, but he’s looking back with such a pathetic receptiveness that Nick swallows whatever scalding insult he’d been ready to launch.

‘He’s fine,’ Nick says loftily.

‘Still at the Barfly?’

‘No, not anymore.’

‘Oh really?’ Zayn takes another stumbling step forward. ‘What’s he doing?’

He sighs. ‘Zayn –’

‘He’s been writing?’

Nick stamps out his cigarette, buying himself time. ‘Yeah.’ He pauses, and then as though he can’t help himself, ‘Actually, he’s been getting in touch with other writers, going to the studio and sending demos to labels, all that stuff. Registered on ASCAP now.’

Zayn doesn’t have a clue what ASCAP is but it still makes him breathless. ‘Oh, wow,’ he whispers, eyes wide, heart swelling. ‘He’s – he’s doing so well.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s not sold anything yet,’ Nick says, somewhat haughtily, emanating annoyance. He steps away from Zayn twitchily, reaffirming a wide distance between them, and sniffs before blurting out, ‘We’re living together now, if you must know,’ even though Zayn hadn’t asked.

‘Oh,’ Zayn says, blinking.

Nick nods. ‘Yeah, we are. Got a place in Primrose Hill, near my mates. _Our_ mates.’ He smiles unconvincingly. ‘Just convenient, init. Now Harry walks the dog while I’m at work and he does all the tidying, the washing up. Get to put my feet up.’

Zayn tries to laugh but realises he can’t, and the pair of them just stand there in a silence stuffed with mutual sadness. Nick runs his hand through his hair again and glances at Zayn with miserable, round eyes, chewing on his lip indecisively.

‘I never wanted details,’ he mumbles, eyes going glassy, and Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. ‘But I – I just wanna… I feel like I should…’

He trails off. Zayn bows his head to look at his shoes, heart plummeting into the curdling depths of stomach. ‘Nick, I’m so sorry.’

Nick’s shoes appear in view as he shuffles closer. ‘I just – did he think of me at all?’ Nick asks, pleadingly, and Zayn looks up at him, dizzy with regret and guilt and despondency. ‘He says he did, you know. I trust him, I do. But I just – I can’t help it. That’s all I want to know. Just – fuck, I think about it all the time.’

His face is all puckered lines, an unhappy, drooping mouth. Wide, wet eyes. _He loves him so much_. It makes Zayn’s heart hurt. He’ll never be loved like this, and Harry has it doubled, more than most people could ever dream for. He has Nick and Zayn, both of them clinging onto him like a life-raft, but both of them are half-drowning, slipping further and further into the water, scrabbling for Harry’s hand and only getting his fingertips.

‘He did. It – it was all me,’ he says, swallowing and looking at Nick steadily in the eyes, just like a liar wouldn’t. He can’t tell him that Harry kissed him first. That Harry _pleaded_ to fuck Zayn. ‘We were drunk, and I – I kissed him and then it … you know. I couldn’t – I just – I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. He felt so awful. I’m sorry.’ Nick blinks away the tears in his eyes, nodding once, and his expression flickers with what Zayn can only describe as actual hatred before he looks away, steps back.

For a moment, Zayn feels a gust of anger at himself for continually protecting Harry over and over again, for throwing himself in front of bullets for him when Harry won’t be there to clean up the blood after. He won’t even know about it, tucked up in bed in Primrose Hill while Zayn gets dragged off the street and zipped up inside a body bag, blood staining the pavement.

‘You really shouldn’t obsess over it,’ Zayn goes on, in spite of himself. ‘You can’t be in a relationship with someone if you fixate on the ways that they’ve fucked up.’

‘Oh, cheers, Zayn,’ Nick sneers, turning away and shaking his head. ‘Thanks for the relationship advice, just what I wanted.’

‘Nick, wait,’ Zayn says, but Nick’s walking away. ‘I’m not trying to be –’

‘You know what?’ Nick snaps, turning on his heel and pointing at Zayn. ‘I never told him, you know. About the April Fools thing.’ He sniffs again, rubbing a hand under his nose. ‘All the times he yapped on about you and I never said a fucking word. I just sat there, knowing how he feels about – how much he adored you. And I never said anything. I wouldn’t do that to someone.’

He stalks off and leaves Zayn there alone, cigarette butts at his feet, empty air heavy with heat and silence.

Zayn puts both palms flat over his face, his nose sandwiched between them, and breathes deeply, in and out, in and out, suppressing a scream. He leans back against the wooden wall of the barn, tilting his head back and swallowing in air. When it comes to Harry, for all of these years, ideas of right and wrong have become obsolete, crumbling when Zayn watches Harry’s eyes light up as he catches sight of him, or when he makes Harry laugh so hard he tucks his face into his shoulder, eyes crinkling, or the image of him spread out on a bed, flushed, eyelashes fluttering, hair in his mouth.

He can’t live like this anymore. Years slipping past him in a haze of longing and loneliness, all because he can’t let go of someone who gave up on him a long time ago. He actually tracks _time_ by Harry. He tries to think of a specific month two years ago, November 2015, and he remembers it because of Harry, how they went to the cinema to see the new James Bond movie and snuck in two meals from KFC inside Harry’s rucksack, the pair of them giggling in triumph and throwing chips at people from the back seats. Harry’s knee brushing against his in the darkness. The feel of Harry’s mouth against his ear when he leaned in to whisper commentary during the film. The look of pure joy on his face when Zayn’s mayo packet exploded in his lap and left come-like stains all over his jeans, the way he howled out a laugh and muffled it with his hands. Zayn wanted to rip his hands away from his face and make him promise never to cover up his laughter ever again.

Zayn remembers reading something for an Anthropology unit at uni that said the length of time you were in a relationship is equal to how long it takes to get over it. But he was with Harry for nine months, and it’s been seven long years and he still can’t bear to think about spending the rest of his life with someone else.

Maybe it’s about time he grew up.

Maybe it’s about time he gave up.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn finds her sitting at her table.

‘Hey,’ he says, voice low. He slips into the seat next to her and tries to ignore the quaver of his hands. ‘I’m sorry for freaking out.’

She stares, face expressionless. ‘Okay.’

‘I think you’re – you’re just really pretty, and cool, and I – I’m a fucking dork, and I’m so awkward and stupid but I… just, do you wanna – I mean, if you don’t mind, will you, um. Would you want to dance with me?’

Out of the corner of his eye, as he sits there sweating and waiting with trepidation for Zoë to reply, he thinks he sees Harry watching them, but perhaps he’s imagining it. He doesn’t look over and check.

‘You’re smooth, Zayn,’ Zoë says slowly, surely taking the piss, but when Zayn glances at her nervously she’s smiling, tongue pressed against her teeth. ‘Come on then.’

She stands up, reaches out her small hand, nails painted black to match her dress. Zayn takes a breath in through his mouth, lips parted, heart thumping, and he takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am on tumblr - mightbegone :)


	3. speak to me

  
**_I won’t mind_  
Wednesday, 1st August 2018 ******  


 

 

It’s a simple song, rhyming with a satisfying primary-school precision, the lyrics universally relatable in their vagueness, the kind of song you scream along to in the car. A foot-stomping, guitar strumming, country-cum-pop song, a genre made relevant by Mumford & Sons and made cool by everyone else. It’s not mind-blowing, or ground-breaking, or technically brilliant, but it’s _good_. It’s catchy and fun and Zayn hears it _everywhere_ , in shops and on adverts on the TV and in the lift at work. 

It’s modest and unpretentious, a classic uplifting pop song, packaged with a wildly expensive music video, the singer writhing around in a desert and being pummelled with paintballs.

Last time Zayn checked, it had over 40 million views on YouTube.

And then, on the last Sunday of July, it goes to number one. The singer, a sweet girl five years younger than Zayn with a huge mane of hair, screams live on Radio One as it’s announced. _Song of the summer_ , it’s heralded. _Catchier than the plague. Pop music at its best. The song that speaks directly to your broken heart and says, hey it’s okay – me too!_

And behind all the write ups, the flashy remixes, the endless radio replays, the tiny screaming popstar, there’s Harry Styles, beaming and more than a little bemused, because after six years of endless grafting, of optioned songs recorded and then dropped from the album last minute, of crushed hopes and scalded dreams, he’s just written a song that went to number one.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn sits at his desk, tapping his pen and humming along to Harry's song. He's horrendously bored, in truth, and despite the rare gift of British air conditioning it's so relentlessly hot in here, sweat forming in patches under his shirt.

He's been at the Institute now for four years, a graduate job that melted without much urgency into the job Zayn thinks he could easily stay at for the rest of his life. He sits at a computer for nine and a half hours a day, filling in spread sheets and writing reports and struggling through phone conversations with other institutes and universities all the way around the world, trying not to sound too obviously irritated by the language barrier. 

As one would probably expect, the longer he's been there, the more senior he's become. He now actually has a team of people working for him, two women and a man who is resentfully older than Zayn, a fact he's reminded of far too often for it to be professionally acceptable. 

It's not what he thought he would be doing, but then, does anyone end up doing what they thought they'd be doing? Except Harry, who’s living his dream. And Louis, who’s a stage manager in a small fringe theatre in London now. And Liam, who’s quit being a stockboy and is training to be a fireman. Zayn once had romantic visions of himself saving sick kittens and dying dogs and tiny pregnant rabbits. That ship sailed so long ago he can barely see the shape of it on the horizon anymore. 

Something more creative is all he really wants. He’s always doodling and drawing and painting, always jotting down cool ideas for comics he’ll never make, and he’s realistic enough to know that things like that are cool hobbies and nothing more. But he’d love to go to work and make something people can enjoy. Something to make people happy, like Harry does. 

Terry pokes his bald head over the top of Zayn’s desk, two beady eyes peering over the photographs Zayn’s pinned to the noticeboard, of his sisters and Louis and El and Liam and Soph and Zoë and Harry. 

‘Can you turn this song off,’ Terry snaps. ‘It’s doing my head in.’

‘I like it,’ Zayn says defensively, and then, for no reason at all, ‘It’s number one in like, twenty countries.’

Terry ignores him. ‘I can’t work with this racket blaring. It’s bloody deafening.’

Zayn considers telling Terry to shove it up his ass, but he acquiesces that it would be mean of him and sighs, switching off his radio. Mollified, Terry disappears back behind the noticeboard and Zayn just stares at the empty space his head left, drowning in the silence of the office, the buzz of the ineffective air con, the light tapping of fingers on keyboards, the thrumming of his own pulse, steady and reliable, over and over and over.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn knows they’ve got the right place when they hear the song – Harry’s song – blaring from two streets away. It slices through the prissy, dignified Primrose Hill air, the heavy strumming of acoustic guitar washing over the even paving slabs, the crayon-green trees, the trimmed front gardens.

Zayn steels himself, shoulders stiffening under his Batman t-shirt, and he feels himself grow nervous with the absolute certainty that, inside, there’ll half-naked people holding miniature dogs, sporting insanely coloured clothing and fake smiles. He gulps, and his hand snakes its way out of his pocket to reach for Zoë instinctively. 

‘God, I fucking hate this song,’ Zoë says, not even quietly, and Zayn lets his arm drop like it’s made of lead.

The door swings open, and they’re met by a girl with bright orange hair and an almost manic grin, clad in faux-leopard fur. Zayn wonders if she meant to look like Pebbles Flintstone or if it was a happy coincidence, but before he can ponder further, she’s flapping a long-nailed hand in his face and he worries for the safety of his eyes.

‘Hiya!’ she barks in a harsh American accent, beaming at them. ‘Come on in! Don’t be shy!’

Even Louis blinks at her in surprised, paralysing silence, and he’s the loudest, most inappropriate person Zayn knows. The four of them shuffle in after her, Zoë unimpressed, Louis and Eleanor stunned, Zayn mostly horrified.

Nick and Harry’s house, a modestly sized, two-bedroom terrace complete with small garden and en-suite bathroom, feels _tiny_ packed with all these people. Even the sunny presence of Niall Horan, who bellows a hello from the other side of the room and waves like a madman, doesn’t quite make things better.

Louis’ been round here loads of times since he and El moved to London, and he guides Zayn and the others through the crowded open-plan space to a corner of the kitchen with the important air of a tour guide. It’s all high-ceilings and modern fixtures in here, a neon sign bolted to the wall, a grey stainless steel kitchen. Zayn leans against the counter and crosses his arms across his chest, trying to obscure himself. He knows – _of course_ he does – that he looks the way he does. He notices the glances he gets, the double-takes made over curious shoulders. He’s heard the comments about his cheekbones, his eyelashes, his entire face in general. But around people like this, he feels too skinny, too bug-eyed, his newly shaved head doing nothing to make his features seem less sharp. He folds himself up like a pretzel against the counter, arms crossing and legs twisting, hoping that if he makes himself small nobody will look at him. 

It doesn’t work though; a man with tortoiseshell glasses spots Zayn from across the room, pointing at him and shouting, ‘Who are you? Did I see you walk Balmain earlier this year?’

It’s unclear whether that was a joke or not, even though people laugh, and Zayn only winces, energetically avoiding eye contact.

Louis steps in front of him, shielding him from view, and smiles reassuringly. ‘Oh Zaynie, our very own runway model,’ Louis jokes, clapping a hand on Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn grins and nods stoically. Everyone in this room is _loud_ , Zayn thinks as he looks around with wide eyes, a loudness that’s fucking deafening, loud clothes and loud hair and loud voices. 

People like this – confident, shouty, friendly but in a very public _tell me all your secrets_ way – are of the same self-assured, fragrantly rich, show-off-y breed as Cambridge students, just not as straight-backed or right-wing or heterosexual. Zayn flashes Louis a look of warning, the kind of look that says _get me the fuck out of here_ , and despite all of his various character flaws, Louis is above all a consistently good mate, especially in a crisis. His eyebrows pucker, craning his neck as if looking for the fire escape.

‘Oh. You’re here,’ a voice says to his left, without any sort of sense of occasion, and without looking, Zayn knows it’s Nick. He steels himself and then looks over, thinking _Yes, bitch, I’m here_ , and is horrified to find Nick smiling politely at all of them like the solidly nice human being he is. ‘Welcome to the mad house.’

‘Thank you for inviting us,’ Zoë says, and briefly, Zayn thinks _traitor_. ‘Your house is gorgeous.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Nick says, puffing up like he built the house himself. ‘Not bad, is it? Enough for the two of us, and the dog.’ 

Zayn’s face twitches. 

He runs a hand over his shaved head and looks away from them, soaking up the ostentation in the room, wondering how many of these people have licked coke off each other and fucked in visible open spaces in front of all their friends. He reckons it’s probably a large percentage. 

And to think he was with Bald Terry at work just hours before.

‘How are you, Zayn?’ Nick asks, and Zayn looks over at him sharply, surprised. Nick smiles tightly, and Zayn’s heart momentarily sinks because he really is trying, after everything. For Harry’s sake. Even though Zayn and Harry haven’t properly spoken about more than the weather or their families, at birthday parties and weddings and stag-dos, for almost two years. 

‘Good, yeah,’ Zayn says, and then struggles to think of anything else to add. 

‘Nice hair.’

‘Cheers.’

Zayn’s ability to make small talk with Nick evaporated around the time Harry fucked Zayn within an inch of his life in Barcelona, so they all stand there awkwardly, until Eleanor gathers enough sense to save the day.

‘Is that Alexa Chung?’ she asks in a stage-whisper, nudging Nick. 

‘Oh yeah, good pal of mine,’ Nick says with a mega-watt smile. ‘You wanna meet her? Talk fashion-y stuff?’

Eleanor’s eyes widen. ‘Oh – oh, can I?’

‘Course,’ Nick beams, like the kind generous ray of fucking sunshine he is, looping his arm through Eleanor’s, and then he’s dragging her off in the direction of Alexa. Louis shoots Zayn an apologetic glance, squeezing him in the ribs, and scampers after them like a lost puppy. _Et tu, Brute?_

‘What the fuck is the matter with you?’ Zoë hisses, terrifyingly, as soon as they’re out of earshot. ‘Are you incapable of making conversation?’

‘Um,’ is all Zayn manages to say back, because at that very moment he spots Harry over Zoë’s shoulder, shuffling through the crowd with a bright smile. His hair is still long, his cheekbones still sharp, he’s sporting a weird tunic type thing with tassels and, fuck, he looks ridiculous. Zayn watches him with a fond kind of exhaustion, watching as he lets himself be kissed right on the lips by a girl with a pixie crop and earrings that hang past her collarbones, before he’s brought down to earth by Zoë’s sharp fingers pinching his arm.

‘Ow!’

‘Stop daydreaming,’ Zoë snaps, severely lacking any sort of pity as Zayn rubs at his arm.

‘That hurt, Zo!’

‘Sorry,’ she says flatly, without effort. ‘I was talking to you.’

‘What were you saying?’

‘Do you reckon they’ve got a walk-in shower?’

Zoë’s become recently obsessed with other people’s houses, whether they’ve got en-suites or surround sound or planning permission to extend into the loft. They’re all unsubtle hints that the pair of them should buy a house together that Zayn is resolutely choosing to ignore.

‘Maybe.’

‘Looks like it. Good transport links here, too, must be worth a fortune.’

‘Why don’t you ask Harry?’ Zayn says – a sneaky deflection – pointing over to Harry, who’s obediently dancing along self-consciously to his own song for a small, delighted crowd, wine glass in hand, a look of embarrassment on his face.

Zoë huffs in the way that she always does when Harry’s mentioned, possibly because Harry has tried and failed to pretend that he likes her. They’ve met a total of three times – Eleanor’s birthday, Niall’s birthday, and Louis’ birthday – but after several stony glares and a near argument following a tragedy of a pub quiz, that’s proved more than enough.

‘What, the musical messiah? No thank _you_ ,’ Zoë sneers, twisting a bit of hair around her finger. Sometimes she reminds him of the mean girls on the playground, the ones who didn’t spare a single glance at Zayn until he was sixteen and stopped letting his Aunty Maryum cut his hair.

‘Be nice,’ he says warningly, and she blinks up at him, cat-like eyes unreadable as she pinches his chin between her fingers and leans onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

‘I’m always nice,’ she says against his lips, deliberately sultry. He gulps, half out of fear and half desire, a familiar, nausea-inducing concoction that only Zoë manages to ignite to such a terrific degree, before sauntering off in the direction of the drinks.

Zayn slumps, worn out, against the counter. There was something proprietary and territorial about that kiss that he doesn’t want to have to think about, because that’s what Zayn does, and has always done: ignores things he’d rather not dwell on. 

He and Zoë have been together for a year now. Sometimes Zayn thinks he might be in love with her, her crooked smile and the freckles on her nose and the way she stomps around in huge boots and saves people from going to jail on a daily basis. He likes how brave she is, how she’s not afraid to tell cat-callers to fuck off or speak her mind when Louis is in the middle of one of his more ignorant episodes. She reminds him of Harry in that way – if Harry was able to finish a sentence without an ‘um’ and a ‘sorry’ and a sheepish sort of smile. But he’s brave, too, just in a different sort of way. And if there’s one thing Zoë’s not, it’s apologetic.

She’s cool and she’s straightforward and most of all, she’s downright fucking _scary_. Zayn once tentatively suggested she buy an actual bedframe rather than sleep on a rock hard mattress on the floor, or instal some proper lights into her tomb-like flat, and she laughed like he’d suggested Santa was real and stared at him like he’d attempted to push her in front of a bus and said ‘oh Zayn, you’re _so_ boring.’

But they have a laugh, most of the time. Maybe that’s enough. 

He swipes Zoë’s lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing over at Harry to check if he’s still awkwardly dancing, and finds Harry staring right back at him.

The air thins spectacularly, stretching so tight it makes Zayn’s throat dry.

Harry flushes a little, looking away uncomfortably as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. But Zayn keeps looking at him so eventually he looks back, waving at Zayn with a tiny little shake of his wrist by his side. Zayn waves back, feels a thump of something he dutifully shoves into the dark corner of his brain with all the other stuff he’s ignoring, and then before he can turn and escape, Harry’s at his side.

‘Well,’ Harry says, surveying Zayn happily, hands on hips. ‘Look at you!’

Zayn smiles as best he can. ‘Hi, H.’

‘I like the hair,’ Harry comments, and before Zayn can say anything in return, he’s being gathered up into a hug. ‘When was this done?’ Harry says against his shoulder, squeezing him tightly in that sweet, awful way he does before letting him go too fast.

‘March, I think,’ Zayn says, scrubbing a hand over it self-consciously. ‘You don’t think I look like a convict?’

‘With all the new tats, a little bit.’ Harry smiles and then grabs at Zayn’s wrist, lips quivering as he glances briefly at Zayn before examining his arm. ‘That tiger’s ace.’

‘Thanks,’ Zayn says, biting his lip to stop himself grinning. ‘It’s, uh. Zoë’s dad’s a tattoo artist.’

‘Mmm, so I’ve heard,’ Harry says lightly, his tone non-committal, but Zayn notices the smile drooping on one side of his mouth. 

‘Hoping to get a full sleeve on this side.’

Harry nods, still smiling. He lets go, and Zayn’s hand drops limply to his side. ‘That’ll look sick.’

There’s a pause. ‘How’re you, anyway?’

‘Oh, good! Great, actually. You know.’ He shrugs, an attempt at modesty that doesn’t really work since Zayn catches a glimpse of Kate Moss over Harry’s shoulder, singing along to Harry’s song like she’s heard it a thousand times before. ‘It’s all kicked off, out of nowhere. Busy busy.’

‘Have you had Jay-Z on the phone?’ Zayn asks jokingly, but it feels a bit heavy in his mouth and comes out flat. This is the way they speak to each other, now, just stilted, strangled conversation, as though they’re being recorded on camera at all times and are horribly aware of their audience.

How has this become all that they are, after everything? Harry helped Zayn shower vomit out of his hair, once. They’ve shared secrets in Harry’s tiny bed that Zayn never thought he’d tell anyone. They’ve licked and touched and bit and pulled and pressed and fucked till they cried. They’ve broken each other apart and watched as the pieces reformed themselves, watched as years and years have remoulded the shattered adolescent fragments into something resembling adulthood, scarred and tattooed with fault lines in the shape of one another, and Zayn can’t even meet Harry’s eyes for longer than a few seconds. 

‘Not quite.’ Harry grins in a bashful sort of way, drains his glass and puts it on the counter by Zayn’s hip. ‘Watch this space though. It’s all getting quite exciting.’

Zayn thinks of his sweaty morning commute, his little desk, the picture of seventeen-year-old Harry tacked to the board, Terry’s bald, shiny head. ‘Really? Why, what’s happening?’

‘I’ll speak to you later,’ Harry says, catching eye contact with someone out in the garden. He grins apologetically, hand on Zayn’s arm. ‘I’m in charge of the barbecue.’

‘At your own party?’

‘Nightmare, I know. Nick’s not good with fire.’ He leans forward, hesitating for a moment so that Zayn can feel the warm tease of his breath against his cheek, before he presses a tentative kiss there, lips lingering just for a second. It’s so soft, so light, but Zayn thinks of the way Harry kissed him on the sofa in Barcelona, so desperate he was shaking with it, and his fingers twitch like they’ve been shoved in a socket. ‘See you later.’

And then he’s gone.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

It’s a stuffy, dry August evening, much too hot outside in the garden with the barbecue but also too hot inside, even in the big, open plan space. Zayn finds himself shoved into a corner of the living room, a wilting hot-dog in one hand and a dripping can of Stella in the other, sandwiched by the speakers between Louis and Niall Horan. The pair of them have been talking, virtually non-stop, about the world cup, but Zayn stopped caring about the world cup three months ago at the exact moment the whistle blew on the final match, so he zones out and instead watches his girlfriend become more and more infatuated with Nick Grimshaw as the party drags on. The pair of them are ostensibly joint at the hip as they swan around together, Nick introducing her with a triumphant flourish to all of his cool, metallic-sunglass-wielding friends. Somehow Zayn just knew they’d get on – the sarcasm, the music snobbishness, the shared obsession with the Kardashians and wine – but it irritates him all the same.

Sides have to be taken, in a mess like this. Except – nobody’s actually taken his side. 

So he stands between Louis and Niall and he stares at Zoë, and he stares at all the fun media characters in the room, feeling a tiny swell of envy for their outlandish confidence, the fact that they don’t have to worry about drinking and having a hangover at work tomorrow, the way they can wear what they like and not worry that they might look stupid. But mostly he stares at Harry, in some kind of stratosphere where this strange life Harry’s been swallowed up in doesn’t exist anymore.

Because Zayn knows him. He knows his official favourite song is _Go Your Own Way_ but his actual favourite song is _Jessie’s Girl_ , knows the way he sleeps – on his front with his mouth open, gripping the pillow tight – knows his preferred takeaway food and his shoe size and what shampoo he uses. Harry, who moved to a new city aged sixteen and found two best friends for life within weeks, gobbling them up in that horrible way he does. Harry, who had a plant he named Viola, who spent so many afternoons on his own in which he carefully painted the side of the pot with stars. Harry, who couldn’t be with a girl because he couldn’t bear to break her heart. Harry, who’s always had quite a bit more money than Zayn but never _that_ much, who used to look positively fucking broken when his dad sent him some money from Melbourne along with half-hearted promises to come and visit. _Fuck him if he thinks I’m spending his filthy fucking money_ , Harry had said once, in that last summer together, and he gave the whole thing away to a dolphin charity online. 

And now, Harry pokes his head around the door to the garden, long hair falling in front of his face, shirt flapping around his waist. Bob Geldof’s daughter ruffles his hair, Florence – as in _the Machine_ – squeezes his hip, someone from _Eastenders_ snaps a picture of him for their Instagram. Maybe Zayn doesn’t know him at all.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

The wine flows on, the salmon and pepper skewers are demolished, the song plays on loop until someone finally has the sense to switch it over to Destiny’s Child before they all go stir crazy. Zoë, who seems to have forgotten Zayn exists, sits in a tight circle of A-Listers discussing a trial she was involved a few months ago.

And Zayn’s ear is being chewed off by Niall, who is trying to convince him – complete with enthusiastic, drunken hand gestures – to email this guy he knows who works for BBC Nature. And Zayn knows he’s just talking shit because he’s drunk, but still he listens carefully. It’s not hard to imagine himself storyboarding programmes about whales and snow leopards and nearly extinct birds, sitting down with a group of other like-minded people on beanbags and sipping Fair Trade coffee, tapping ideas in on an iPad. He thinks of Terry, of the stuffy office, and then Niall slurs something about creative juices, and Zayn’s suddenly so excited he can hear his heart in his ears. There’s a gentle slide of something in the corners of his mind, something easing into place, like he’s been driving aimlessly down a motorway for a long time and he’s finally seen a sign in the distance, and –

Perhaps this moment, and Niall Horan, and the spark of an idea, is all he’s been waiting for, all along.

He’s just about to say something – _thank you, maybe, for potentially changing my whole life_ – when his shoulder is jostled from behind and he stumbles forward into Niall. The person behind him shrieks in overdramatic apology, cursing their stilettos, and Zayn shrugs it off, embarrassed. 

‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’

‘Oh, but look –’

‘Fuck, sorry Zayn, the wine’s all over you!’

‘It’s all right, Niall, it’s fine.’

‘I’m so sorry –’

‘–stupid fucking heels!’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’

Zayn scampers out into the hallway before a bigger scene can erupt, his t-shirt dripping the remainder of Niall’s wine onto the carpet. The downstairs toilet is occupied so he scurries upstairs and into the master bedroom, shutting himself in their en suite and running the cold tap. 

. He makes a mental note to tell Zoë.

In the mirror, his reflection gazes back at him, round, hazel eyes framed with dark eyelashes, light stubble, no hair to hide behind anymore. Zayn squeezes the wine out of his t-shirt under the tap and leans forward, examining the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. His lips are a little chapped and he’s got light purple bruises under his eyes, but all in all, it’s not a bad view. _Did I see you walk Balmain?_ He snorts.

He flaps his shirt out at his waist in an attempt to dry it and then notices the bottle of what he knows is Harry’s cologne. He’s been wearing the same thing since they were kids. Zayn picks it up, curves his fingers around it, and – _no. Nope._ He will not stoop to those crazy, embarrassing depths.

He defiantly puts it down, turns around and goes to leave, except suddenly he’s back by the mirror, smothering himself in Harry’s cologne. It’s so familiar and sad he could cry, but instead of bursting into tears he’s covering his neck and wrists, practically fucking drowning himself in it. 

Well. 

Here we are. 

What next? Put on Harry’s underwear and climb into bed with Nick?

Zayn spills out into the bedroom, barely lit by fading orange sunshine dribbling through the windows. There’s a framed picture of Jagger on the wall, Nick’s dog’s curled up at the foot of the duvet, and Zayn suddenly remembers where he is. 

Images blossom in his head that make him feel sick and he shoves them away deftly in that expert way he does now, sitting down beside the dog and staring at the bedside table. It must be Harry’s side of the bed, because there’s a framed picture of his mum and Gemma, and his watch, and a bottle of water, a few rings, some aspirin, a pot of moisturiser. There’s books piled under the shadow of the table, and Zayn examines them, huffing out an exasperated laugh when they’re all heavily-thumbed poetry anthologies besides the topmost book, _Cleansing the Mind and Body – a Spiritual Journey._

He has a sudden urge to open the drawers, root through all Harry’s things like a police officer hunting for something incriminating, but then he’s scared of what he may find and that would also be really weird, so he sits further back on the bed and occupies himself with stroking the dog. She blinks her eyes open as he scratches behind her ear, stretching out her neck and leaning into him, and Zayn feels a little burst of warmth in the centre of his chest. Something tells him she’s on his side, somehow.

‘Hey.’

Zayn looks up, and Harry’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He leaps off the bed, upsetting the poor dog who jumps and whines in disgruntled surprise, but Harry doesn’t look similarly annoyed. He looks… strange. His eyes are soft and warm and they follow all of Zayn’s movements, sliding over him as though committing him to memory.

‘Poor Pig,’ Harry says gently, watching as Zayn gulps and reaches out an arm to settle her. ‘I see you’ve made friends.’

‘I just – I spilled wine on my t-shirt,’ Zayn explains quickly, stumbling over the words. ‘I had to wash it off. I wasn’t being – weird or anything.’

Harry smiles. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

Zayn nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking around awkwardly. ‘Nice bedroom.’

‘Thanks,’ Harry says with a gentle raise of his eyebrows, a smirk pulling at his lips.

‘The whole house – all of it’s nice.’ Zayn gulps. ‘Tasteful furnishings.’

Harry just stares at him for a moment, and then snorts. ‘Wow.’

‘Zo wants us to buy a place,’ Zayn finds himself saying, quickly, like he’s trying to spit a bad taste out. ‘But she won’t let me decorate it, probably. She’s not really into, like. Furniture in general.’

Harry nods knowingly, biting his bottom lip. He pauses for a second, almost as though he’s deliberating, before saying, ‘I wasn’t really allowed to decorate here either. None of this is like… my idea. I had all this cool stuff I bought when I was travelling, you know, that I couldn’t put up in the old flat cos it was so small. All these really nice wall hangings and flags and paintings and stuff. But Nick said it’d look like a geography classroom.’ He smiles weakly and points at the bed. ‘They’re all in boxes down there.’

The pair of them stare at each other for just a second too long, and then Zayn looks down at the cream coloured carpet, scuffing it with the toe of his boot. ‘Oh,’ is all he says, because anything else would betray him and open up that rotting can of worms that he’s managed to stow away for a whole year now.

Harry steps forward tentatively, right into the light that’s twisting the room gold. Even Harry looks gold when Zayn looks up at him, streaks of his hair glinting, green irises paling into a rich yellow, skin fucking glowing. _Glowing._

‘Hey,’ Harry says again, voice still so achingly soft, and in other circumstances, if Zayn weren’t stronger and with Zoë and a New Person now, it may have made him want to cry. ‘Can I show you something?’

Zayn licks his lips, and then nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says, trying to imagine a day he’ll be able to say no.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Just far away enough from the house that the music becomes a faint thump in the breeze and the laughter is inaudible, Zayn finds himself following Harry through an alley between two houses, tripping through a tunnel of bramble, wincing when stinging nettles brush against his bare arms, scraping over the new ink on his skin.

Harry, frequently careless with his own limbs, somehow slips through the menacing branches with the agility of a marine on a training assault course, bending and twisting like a cat through the spiky, stinging leaves. Zayn nearly gets whacked in the face by a thorny twig and sighs loudly, seriously considering calling to Harry to say he’s given up, but then Harry turns and grins over his shoulder, hair curling against his cheek, tongue pressed against his teeth, and Zayn’s feet move forward of their own accord.

After what feels like a solid ten minutes of near decapitation, the assault eases up and wild bushes melt into neat, seemingly endless squares of pruned gardens, each plot about two hundred and fifty square feet. They carry on until Harry stops suddenly, arms extending ceremoniously, beaming at Zayn.

‘Here we are!’ he says excitedly, watching for Zayn’s reaction with wide eyes as he takes in Harry’s allotment space. It’s full to the brim with flowers Zayn doesn’t know the name of, pink and yellow and blue and purple and amber and red and indigo, all of them carefully planted into dark, crumbly soil. At the back there’s a rainbow-striped hammock – oh God, a _hammock_ – with one side attached to the shed and the other to a pole poking up from the ground, and Zayn feels an ache ripple through him, soft tremors announcing an earthquake, as he notes the messy stars Harry’s slapped onto the shed in silver paint, like the stars on his old ceiling, like the way he decorated Violet’s tiny flower pot years and years ago.

‘This is yours?’ Zayn asks, turning to smile at Harry as best he can, even though he feels an overwhelming urge to lie down. 

‘Yep! All mine!’ He steps through the flowers proudly, tapping the side of his shed. ‘The garden at home is – well, Nick always has people over, and I didn’t want to plant stuff if they were all gonna get trampled. So I rent this little place here, and it’s perfect.’ He smiles, teeth gnawing into his lower lip and hands on hips, looking down at all his flowers, and Zayn stands at the threshold and wants to die. ‘I come down here almost everyday now. Sometimes I bring Pig, but she likes to dig up the flowers so I’ve been trying not to. And I bring my guitar sometimes, too, but I don’t want to annoy anyone.’

He sits back on his hammock and pats the space next to him, grinning encouragingly. Zayn steps gingerly through the flowerbed, careful not to tread on anything, and sits as far away as he can from Harry on the hammock, folding his hands prudently in his lap.

‘It’s nice, having my own space, y’know?’ Harry says, more quietly now, swinging them gently by rocking his heels against the soil. ‘It’s, um, weird living with someone all the time.’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn breathes. 

The air is still warm, the sky is a pale, washed out blue, and there’s birds chirping sleepily overhead when Harry looks at Zayn over his shoulder, mouth twisting thoughtfully. ‘You don’t think it’s weird, do you?’

‘What?’

‘Me having this place.’ Harry smiles self-consciously, and he blinks at Zayn with an anxious, hopeful look in his eyes, like he truly cares what Zayn has to say. ‘I think I’m the youngest person here. Both the ladies either side know each other from the Bingo.’

Zayn’s heart is doing something dangerous, and he feels a little flare of panic because it’s not supposed to do this anymore. ‘No, Harry. It’s not weird.’

‘Promise?’

Zayn smiles, ignoring the minor explosion in his ribcage. ‘You shouldn’t worry about doing things you enjoy. It doesn’t matter what other people think.’

‘I guess.’

‘I read Captain America fanfiction,’ Zayn admits, watching as Harry’s dimple pulls slowly in his cheek. ‘On the tube. In the queue at Costa. And at work, sometimes, when I’m bored.’

‘Reaaaaaally.’

‘Mmm. Graphic descriptions of superheroes fucking each other, it’s what I’m about.’

‘You’re selling it to me.’

‘You’ll never look at Robert Downey Jr. in the same way again.’

Harry laughs, his eyes screwing up into crescent moons, his mouth open and pink, and Zayn has to look away from him before his brain short-circuits. ‘Does Zoë read them too?’

‘No, she doesn’t read much of anything, really.’ 

‘Ah.’

Zayn leans back against the hammock, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. ‘Why don’t you like her?’

‘I do like her!’ Harry says defensively, far too quickly, and despite his best efforts it doesn’t ring entirely true given the fact that Harry blatantly doesn’t like her. 

‘It’s okay, you can tell me.’

‘Zayn.’ Harry stares at him, rearranging his face into a look of earnest. ‘I do like her.’

Zayn raises his eyebrows. Last time they met was a pub quiz on Louis’ birthday, a disaster of an evening which somehow managed to morph into a Harry versus Zoë showdown whilst Eleanor and Louis blew off the quiz entirely in favour of sneaking off to do God knows what in the bathroom, Liam and Sophia escaped to the bar, and Niall sat glued to his phone, desperately Uninvolved. Nick and Zayn had sat in awkward, almost companionable silence whilst Zoë and Harry sniped at each other for almost two hours over everything, including who got to hold the pen. It ended with them losing by quite some margin to a group of pensioners who didn’t even know which Spice Girl was the youngest, and Zoë threw the pen down angrily, hissing ‘go fuck yourself, Styles’ with an inappropriate amount of enthusiasm. Harry rolled his eyes and mumbled something in a register inaudible to most mammals, but the passive aggressive way he practically hurled the pen back towards her and pressed his tongue against his cheek was enough ammunition for Zoë. Zayn could see it coming from miles off, as though watching a car crash from the safety of a service station.

‘I would tell you to go suck a dick,’ Zoë said, examining her nails with a vicious sort of expression, ‘but Zayn says you’ve had enough practise of that already’. 

Nobody except Nick seemed to notice Zayn almost dying on the other side of the table, choking on the dregs of his pint and retching into the empty bowl of nuts, but then, he and Nick weren’t exactly speaking and Nick could only glance at him worriedly from the corner of his eye and pretend not to realise. Harry just looked over at Zayn, eyes wide and shocked, saying ‘what does she mean by that?’. It didn’t escape Zayn’s attention that this was the first thing they’d said to each other since a small hello at the door. It was also the last thing they said to each other for a long time. Until this afternoon, in fact. 

‘Right,’ Zayn says now, reddening at the memory. ‘But if you hypothetically _didn’t_ like her…’

Harry sighs and leans back too, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘She’s just a bit…’

‘Go on.’

‘Mean. That’s all.’

Zayn’s eyebrows pucker. ‘She’s not mean.’

‘Not to you, maybe. I don’t think she’s very nice.’

Zayn struggles to decide what to do with his face before laughing, a hacking cough of a fake laugh that doesn’t convince either of them. ‘What, not The Nicest Boy of All like you?’

Harry doesn’t respond, and Zayn thinks he might have hurt Harry’s feelings before Harry eventually says, ‘Does she know about me?’

‘What about you?’

‘That we’re…’

He trails off, biting his lip and looking at Zayn expectantly. Zayn’s pulse thunders unpleasantly and he looks down at his soil-covered shoes. He thinks of his confession at the wedding last year, that he still loved Harry, and how Zoë’s not mentioned it since.

‘She knows we were friends, yeah.’

‘ _Were_?’

Zayn blinks at him, unsure what to say, and Harry frowns. 

‘We _are_ friends, Zayn.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes. Present tense.’

‘Oh, okay.’

Harry pokes him, and Zayn can’t help but admire his persistence. ‘Best friends forever, remember?’

‘Isn’t Niall your best friend?’

‘Nope, still you.’ He grins, his hair falling in front of his face, and Zayn’s hands twitch over his stomach. ‘You’re not getting rid of me.’

‘Oh, _fuck_. Just when I thought I’d escaped.’

‘Nobody escapes me, Malik. I’m like that big jellyfish in _Spider-Man_ –’

‘Doctor Octopus?’

‘– once you’re in my tentacles, you’re never coming out.’

‘Why does that sound sexual?’

‘Maybe it is,’ Harry says, waggling his eyebrows, and Zayn can’t help but laugh, tilting his head back against the hammock and feeling his stomach shake under his fingers, his skin prickling with the knowledge that Harry’s eyes are on him. 

‘You really do look good, you know,’ Harry says, pressing his knee to Zayn’s, and it might be an accident but it probably isn’t. ‘The hair and the tattoos and everything.’

‘Cheers,’ Zayn responds, desperately casual. ‘I like the tunic.’

‘It’s Saint Laurent,’ Harry says, tugging at it doubtfully. ‘It was a gift.’

‘I see.’ Zayn sniffs and tries a smile. ‘I forgot for a minute there that you’re all showbiz now.’

‘Hardly.’

‘You need to tell me the news. You’re not getting a reality show, are you?’

‘What? Fuck off.’

‘Writing a soul-cleansing album that’s just whales howling for twenty minutes?’

‘Maybe you can play it in the background while you wank off to Chris Evans getting fucked up the arse.’

They both laugh. Zayn can’t help but think how _easy_ this is, how they can slip back into conversation when they’re not worried about standing too close or saying the wrong thing. Harry smiles his devastating smile, lips all pink and soft around his teeth, and Zayn thinks _I can do this_. If this is all I get of him, I can do this.

‘I’m going to LA,’ Harry says eventually, looking out across the empty allotment. ‘There’s a big network of writers there, they want to meet up and write and throw some ideas around. I’m only going for a couple of weeks, but… it’s cool, yeah?’

‘That’s _so_ cool, H!’ Zayn says, squeezing his knee, beaming at him. He thinks of Harry meeting all the big-shot writers, standing there in his skinny jeans and twisting his rings around his fingers nervously, and he feels himself fill up with something just the wrong side of warm, scalding all the parts of him that haven’t even been lukewarm in a long while. ‘Just think, this time a couple of years ago, you were at the Barfly every night!’

‘I know,’ Harry says with a smile. He exhales, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? How much stuff has changed.’

‘Yeah. It really is.’

They sit there for a while, knees still pressed together, the silence pleasant and comfortable, and Zayn tries to carefully avoid the memory of the two of them in a hammock, so many years ago. Harry keeps them swinging gently, his foot rocking against the floor, and they watch the sky burn ochre.

‘Nick doesn’t think so,’ Harry says out of nowhere.

Zayn blinks at him. ‘Huh?’

‘He doesn’t think it’s cool.’

There’s silence as Zayn tries to choke down a wad of spit the size of a large watermelon. ‘Oh.’

‘He said he’s not good with long distance.’

‘It’s just a holiday, though, right?’

Harry shrugs. ‘Maybe. Could be more, later, if I network and whatever. Make friends.’ He smiles, biting his lip, but then it fades gently. ‘He thinks that I might give someone the – the wrong idea out there. That I might…’ He trails off, coughing. ‘Cheat.’

‘Oh,’ Zayn says again. 

‘And I kind of worry he might forget about me. He’s got so many mates and I … I don’t know.’

‘He won’t forget about you,’ Zayn hears himself saying. ‘He can’t.’

Harry rocks them back and forth, quiet flushing them again. Zayn closes his eyes against the sun and tries to steady his heartbeat, but it’s going a bit mental in his chest and he has to grip the fabric of the hammock as though they’re on a rollercoaster and he might fall off.

And then Harry shifts and sits up, reaching under the fabric of the hammock and rooting around in a lone flowerpot before producing a tin biscuit box, waving it at Zayn.

‘Oh, no, you’re all right. Too many salmon skewers.’

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘You think I keep biscuits out here? Idiot.’

He wrenches off the lid and fiddles around inside before passing Zayn a clumsily rolled spliff, smiling mischievously like he did when they were teenagers, flicking the flame of the lighter on and off, on and off. 

‘Oh, Harry, you fucking cliché.’

‘What?’ Harry says innocently, tossing the tin back into the flowerpot. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t do this anymore.’

‘Not that often. Not amongst the flowers like you, you hippie.’

‘You’re only twenty-five, live a little.’ He shoves the spliff between Zayn’s lips before he can say anything else and lights it for him, smiling in satisfaction when Zayn inhales it and gives Harry a scathing look.

‘Zo won’t be happy if she finds out.’

Harry pouts remorselessly. ‘Oh no, poor Zaynie’s gonna be in trouble.’

‘She doesn’t like anything illegal,’ Zayn goes on, ignoring him. He takes another puff and shuts his eyes as it seeps into his lungs. ‘She’s a lawyer.’

‘This’ll be our secret then,’ Harry says, voice softer now, and he pulls at Zayn’s leg until he’s lying on the hammock properly, head at one end and feet at the other. Harry does the same, the toes of his boots nearly knocking Zayn in the ear, and they pass the spliff between them, swinging gently. Top and tailing like they used to do at their sleepovers, before that summer when their sleepovers turned into kissing and touching and pulling each other apart, piece by piece.

And although Zayn’s been trying to avoid it, he knows they’re both thinking about it, that June afternoon all those years ago, their first ever kiss. The air thick with heat and excitement and dread, because it was the afternoon following Harry’s last AS Level exam, and the afternoon before Zayn’s first A Level exam. Zayn stumbled over to Harry’s house, stressed beyond belief, almost clawing his hair out in anxiety, and Harry stole a bottle of wine from his fridge, lying Zayn down on the pale yellow hammock at the bottom of Harry’s garden and passing the bottle between them until they were laughing sloppily, their eyelids drooping.

And then Harry’s lips were at the base of his throat, his jaw, the very edge of his mouth, and Zayn’s trembling hands were on his cheeks, and his tongue was licking the wine from Harry’s mouth, and the whole of Harry’s weight was on top of him, pressing him down into the fabric. Zayn remembers thinking _why_ , because Harry and Francesca Cook were still kind of a thing, and also _no_ , because kissing a boy, kissing _Harry_ , wasn’t something that was meant to happen, however much he had ached for it alone in his little bed with the duvet bunched around his waist. But then Harry’s hands pulled at his hair, pushed his t-shirt up above his nipples, grabbed at Zayn’s legs to pull them around his waist, and Zayn could hear him moaning, could feel him through his jeans, could sense how _right_ this was despite everything else he knew, and he remembers thinking yes.

_Yes, yes, yes._

They finish the spliff and Zayn closes his eyes against the darkening sky, blood pumping lethargically in his ears.

‘Let’s be friends again,’ Zayn hears himself saying. ‘Please.’

Harry nods and Zayn feels his cheek brush against his jeans, rubbing the denim over his skin. He wants to grab for Harry, wrap his fingers around Harry’s calf, press his face into Harry’s thigh, loop his arms around Harry’s waist and never let him go, but he can’t. So he doesn’t.

‘You left me. In Barcelona,’ Harry says quietly. 

Zayn’s head is fuzzy, like his brain’s leaking fog. ‘I went for a cigarette,’ he mumbles. ‘I was gonna come back.’

‘You were?’ 

He sounds doubtful.

‘Of course.’

‘I waited a long time. I woke up and you were gone and I sat there for an hour.’

‘I finished a whole pack. I was scared.’

Harry swallows. ‘You’re always scared, Zayn,’ he whispers.

‘I’ll always come back,’ Zayn says, his voice gentle but there’s a hardness to it, as well, firm like he’s certain. The back of his hand brushes against Harry’s waist. ‘I’m always coming back to you.’

Harry rests his cheek against Zayn’s ankle. ‘We should go soon.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You smell like me.’ And against his leg, Zayn can feel Harry smile.

‘Yeah.’

Neither of them move.

  
**_even though I know you’ll never be mine_  
Sunday, 1st September 2019 ******  


 

 

Zayn’s chow mein has a hair in it.

He’s been trying not to make a scene, but he doesn’t really want to eat it after this discovery. He’s already been nuisance enough because he wouldn’t split the salt and pepper spare ribs with everyone else for obvious reasons, and the disapproving look Zoë’s dad gave him when he tried to surreptitiously spit out a mouthful of crab claw into a napkin was enough to stop him drawing any attention to himself ever again.

They’re at a loftily priced Chinese restaurant on a boat near Regent’s Park, and today, the afternoon before school starts again for another year, it’s full to the brim with families desperately coaxing their children to order anything other than egg fried rice. 

Zayn, Zoë and her parents sit at a table overlooking the river, white table-cloth grazing Zayn’s knees, Zoë’s hand on his thigh, possibly for comfort but also for easy access, in case she needs to give him a threatening squeeze when he does something wrong. 

‘So!’ Zoë’s dad, Leon, booms. An attractive, scary man, he has almost exactly the same face as Zoë, the same brown skin and freckles on his nose, the same unimpressed stare, and he eyes Zayn with a kind of bored disappointment that Zayn isn’t entirely sure he deserves. ‘How’s the move going?’

‘We get the keys in three weeks,’ Zoë says, shovelling something black and sticky into her mouth the second she finishes speaking. She spends at least ten hours a day eating recently, and Zayn blinks at her, impressed and also disgusted.

‘Just been boxing everything up, at the moment,’ Zayn finishes for her. ‘There’s not much to do, really. Zo doesn’t have that much stuff.’

‘We’ll come and help you move in, obviously,’ Zoë’s mum says warmly, mostly to Zayn. She’s a paediatrician at Great Ormond Street, petite and smiley and softly-spoken, a glint of sunshine in the sharp, witchy, ink-coloured sky that is Zoë and her father. Zayn smiles at her and she smiles back. 

‘Thanks, Janet, that’d be great.’

‘You got any friends who could help, Zayn?’ Leon says loudly. He speaks in this register at all times, as though addressing a large crowd. ‘You’ll need some muscle.’

Zayn tries not to bristle at the thinly-veiled insult. ‘Uh, yeah. I’ll ask my mates to help. I’m sure I can manage most things though.’

It doesn’t help that Leon is built like an athlete, his tattoo-covered skin stretched over endless pounds of muscle. He regards Zayn – all thin arms and spindly legs and sharp cheekbones – and sips his water with a raise of his eyebrows.

‘How’s work then, Zayn?’ Janet asks kindly, reaching to trowel even more food onto Zoë’s plate. ‘Enjoying the new job?’

Zayn’s face lights up. He left the Institute over the new year, bidding an enthusiastic goodbye to Terry and the prison-cell desk and the leaky urinal. Having drained and exhausted Niall’s contact list and eventually persuading someone to invite him for an interview, Zayn began his new job in January as the second assistant production researcher in the BBC Nature department, aka the least important person in the room, aka the coffee and tea maker. He now commutes everyday to Oxford Circus and, although there are no beanbags, there are absolutely iPads and coffee machines and other like-minded co-workers, most of them wearing turtleneck jumpers or ironic glasses.

‘Oh, yeah, I’m loving it. It’s been a really good change for me.’

‘Has it? Oh, wonderful.’

‘Yeah, just – just everything, really. It’s the creative side of it, it’s so much better for me. I miss the travelling, but you know, that’s what holidays are for, yeah?’

‘He’s making a documentary about the endangered Vietnamese pheasant,’ Zoë says between chews of crispy shredded beef. This brief description does the potential enjoyment of the programme justice, but Zayn beams at her anyway, proud of himself. And he should be, shouldn’t he?

‘Television,’ Leon says doubtfully, stabbing at his duck like a particularly enthusiastic extra in _Game of Thrones_. ‘Don’t they say in five years we’re all going to be watching everything on the internet?’

Zayn thinks this distrustfulness is pretty rich coming from a tattoo artist, but he keeps his mouth shut.

‘The internet’s gonna be replaced soon, anyway,’ Zoë says thickly, her mouth stuffed with squid. ‘Soon it’s all gonna be hologram projections and stuff sewed into our skin and 4D and we’re gonna be fat and ugly and unable to move like all the people in _Wall-E_. Who gives a fuck if the internet’s taking over, Dad.’

That certainly shuts everyone up.

Zayn stares at her, her cheeks full of food like a hamster, eyes sharp, and feels the fond tug at the centre of his chest he feels for her occasionally, when she makes them feel like a unit, a team.

 _Love of my life_ , he tries, but it doesn’t sound right in his head, so instead he thinks _mother of my child_ , and that sits better, and holds a lot more truth.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn escapes outside for a cigarette when Zoë announces she’s going to be sick and nearly upturns the table en route to the toilet. Janet starts clucking about morning sickness, which Zayn privately disagrees with, since it’s rare to _still_ be getting sick at seven months pregnant, and probably has more to do with the vast amounts of food Zoë consumes on a daily basis. Zayn’s forever roasting and boiling and frying for her, pots and pans flying, arms blurring like a cartoon chef, and she’s still never satisfied.

Unsatisfied is quite a good general description for Zoë currently. As much as Zayn loves being around her (and he does… mostly. At least forty percent of the time, anyway), pregnant Zoë is a pain in the fucking arse. She moans about her swollen feet and her aching back and her sore breasts and Zayn stands there, clueless and frightened, staring wide-eyed at this huge bloated creature standing in the middle of the room glaring at him like this is all entirely his fault. And he’s told, on at least four separate occasions each day, that this entire situation is his fault, as though Zayn personally split his own condom as part of an elaborate, wicked plot to impregnate the woman he still can’t _quite_ say he loves, a conspiracy she’s brilliantly managed to see through. 

Whatever help he offers is usually rejected with a shrieked, ‘ _for fuck’s sake, Zayn!’_ even if his advice is probably quite valid. He spends most of his day drawing her baths and rubbing her feet and running around London looking for certain lotions and herbal teas and maternity underwear, and by the time he’s finally met her demands she’s usually fast asleep, curled up in bed or on the sofa with one hand splayed across her huge stomach. 

But she’s pregnant with his baby, and that’s enough to make him bite his tongue, however much she swears at him in public or eats all of his food with a disdainful look on her face, as though he’s force-feeding it to her. Zayn’s twenty-six-years-old, finally in a job he loves, moving into an actual grown-up, family house in a few weeks time, and he’s having a baby. 

It would obviously be untrue to say that they planned this, and it would also be untrue to say that for the first couple of months, Zayn was ecstatic about the news. It didn’t feel real for a while he supposes, before Zoë started showing and the baby started kicking, before all the proper doctor’s appointments and ultrasound pictures that he distributes like flyers and finds pinned dutifully to his friends’ fridges. He would be lying if, at first, it didn’t feel like some sort of horrible damnation, that he was being trapped into a life with Zoë that he hadn’t exactly asked for. But then he realised what an awful, ungrateful thought that was, and he felt his baby wriggle around in Zoë’s stomach under his palm, and he realised that nothing in the world could make him happier than this, the knowledge that the little ball of cells, half his DNA, was growing into a baby that might have his eyes, his nose, the curve of his smile.

And so Zayn’s happier than he has ever been, probably, even happier than when he first moved to London, even happier than when he was in Barcelona. He’s been planning how he’ll decorate the new house, because as much as Zoë might _think_ that she can make it into another gloomy, dark, empty warehouse of a space, she’ll be nearly eight months pregnant when they move in and Zayn is fully ready to take advantage of that. He’s going to paint Noah’s Ark all over the baby’s bedroom, carefully detail every animal pairing, from big, flappy-eared elephants to tiny little snakes with pink forked tongues and bright triangles on their backs. 

He’s stopped playing video games so much, especially since Louis’ busy too, now, planning his wedding, and in their free time Louis’ been teaching Zayn to drive, which involves lots of screaming at each other and Louis leaning over the gearstick to yank the steering wheel before Zayn accidentally mows down a granny. But he still collects his comics, reads his fanfiction, draws little doodles in his notebooks. He got his nose pierced in February, and drunkenly dyed his hair green for a dare at Liam’s stag-do back in April, and since then he’s dyed it blonde, which is a lot less shock-inducing and something he quietly thinks looks really good. Harry’s got him into running, and he once unsuccessfully battled through a yoga DVD although he’ll never admit it, and he spends a lot of time with the cat he adopted, Rocket – after the space vehicle, not the leaf – and when Zoë’s not around he curls up with Rocket and tells her about his day, about work, about the baby. She’s the best listener he knows, attentive and quiet, purring in all the right places.

Even so, there's something awful about the knowledge that if they broke up, even now, he wouldn't cry. Sometimes he looks at Zoë’s face and he knows he could draw it from memory if you asked him to, right down to the individual freckles across her nose, but he doesn't know her at all. She's the face of a familiar stranger at a bus stop, the weather lady on news at 6, a famous image splashed across the papers. They're not together but near each other, coexisting in the same empty air and putting on the theatrics of a couple without feeling it under the costume. He reaches for her at night and finds himself closing his fingers around nothing, just space and dust and silence. And sometimes, times like now, when he’s left standing alone outside, cigarette burning between his fingers, he feels the incendiary fist of fear tighten around his windpipe. _What if he’s not a good father?_ Or worse – _What if, even as happy as I am now, I had the chance to turn back time? What would I do?_

Zayn digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes it unlocked, puffing on his cigarette as he waits for Snapchat to load. Harry’s sent him a snap of a television, upon which is Tom Hardy’s perfect face, smouldering in what looks like one of the _Mad Max_ movies. 

‘ _Still unbelievably fit_ ’ Harry’s written, the little text box covering his ankles which are stretched out towards the television. Zayn frowns momentarily, trying to place where Harry is because it doesn’t look much like the living room at his and Nick’s house in Primrose Hill, but then the six seconds are up and the picture vanishes.

Zayn sighs out a small laugh, sending back a snap of his face, pinched up in alarm, cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘ _SOS – freaking out :( pub tonight?x_ ’

He finishes his cigarette as he waits for Harry to reply, dropping it to the ground and stamping it out with his foot. Inside, Zoë’s either puking or complaining, but outside it’s refreshingly peaceful, ducks floating on the black surface of the water, the faint sound of laughter floating over from a family walking along the bank. He briefly hears the little girl clinging to her father’s hand shout, ‘I can hear the tigers, Daddy!’ because London Zoo isn’t far from here, and although she’s fibbing her father looks down at her with a look of wonder splashed across his face, squeezing her hand and watching her grin up at him.

Zayn’s heart feels frothy in his chest, spilling over with excitement and nerves and a low ache of something he decides not to investigate, and when he looks down at his phone, Harry’s replied.

‘ _Always_ ,’ Harry’s typed, just his eye and a few tendrils of his hair visible in the shot, the fucking tease. ‘ _Just tell me where & when, baby._’

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn walks from Waterloo down Southbank to meet Harry, his hands stuffed in his pockets, enjoying the low evening sun glistening off the river. There’s a buzz in the air, the knowledge that summer’s drawing to a close, Zayn supposes, and he has to stop to take a picture outside the National, crowding in beside all the like-minded tourists desperate for a snap of their own.

The Anchor is right down near the Globe – not that Zayn’s ever been to a play there, but he’s always wanted to – and there are groups of people striding towards it with sunglasses and sweaters tied around their waists and sensible shoes on. Louis and Eleanor go all the time, pinching those cheap standing tickets where you have to lean against the stage and stare up at the actors, so close their spit lands on you when they over-enunciate. He wonders whether Harry would be up for a trip one evening. 

Zayn sees Liam before he sees anyone else, bronzed and grinning, waving like a maniac from a table out by the river. Zayn lets himself be disappointed for a moment that Harry’s invited other people along, that it’s not just the two of them meeting for a quiet, private drink, before he tells himself to grow the fuck up and smiles back, not waving because he’s not quite so embarrassing. 

They’re all there – Harry, Liam, Louis and Niall, all of them hilariously clad in different coloured plaid shirts like members of a boyband, besides Harry who’s wearing a Kiss t-shirt he’s definitely had since they were teenagers, frayed little holes gathering at the hem. He’s brown, too, from a stint in LA last month, a regular occurrence now in the life of Harry Styles the Songwriter. They’re squashed up on a picnic bench with sunglasses perched on their noses, a herd of pint glasses scattered between them, and on Zayn’s approach they all beam up at him in a way that suggests they were speaking about him only moments ago. 

‘You survived the meal then!’ Louis shouts savagely, yanking Zayn towards the table and smacking a kiss to his cheek. ‘How was it?’

Zayn makes a face that everyone laughs at, and that probably says it all. 

‘What are you drinking, then, mate?’ Niall asks, standing up and squeezing Zayn’s shoulder. ‘I’m buying.’

‘Anything that’ll make me hate myself tomorrow.’

Niall scampers off towards the bar, blue shirt flapping around his waist, and Zayn turns to Liam, his golden tan and peeling nose. ‘How was the honeymoon, Li?’

‘Oh, so good. We held tigers, you know, in a sanctuary.’ Liam’s eyes go a bit misty, and Louis tenses beside Zayn and crosses his legs, as though physically restraining himself from making a snarky comment. He’s allowing a rest period for Liam to soak in his happiness before the piss-taking commences again.

‘Isn’t holding tigers, like, unethical?’ Harry pipes up, a frown wrinkling his nose, and Zayn feels himself smiling dopily at him, propping his head up on his chin and ignoring the loud, demanding thump of his heartbeat.

‘What?’ Liam says blankly.

‘Tigers,’ Harry repeats slowly. ‘They’re not meant to be held. They’re wild animals, Liam, not stray cats. Did you check whether or not they were being kept in the right conditions, at the very least?’

‘Don’t try and school Liam on animal rights, Harry, we’ll be here all night,’ Louis says, draining his glass. 

Liam’s face puckers. ‘I’m very into animal rights!’ he says indignantly. ‘We’ve got three dogs!’ 

‘But see, that’s the difference, Liam. Dogs are meant to be kept as pets. Dogs like being tied up and handled –’

‘Like you, then,’ Louis sniggers, and Zayn can’t help but snort.

Liam shakes his head at Harry, scowling. ‘Who made you chief of the RSPV?’

Harry blinks at him. ‘Do you mean RSPCA?’

Louis turns to Zayn, hand on his arm, and says indulgently over the top of Liam and Harry, ‘Now, Malik. Tell us about this crisis.’ 

Zayn’s cheeks redden and he glances briefly at Harry. He is staring right back, unreadable beneath blank features and drawn, concentrated brows, but his gaze is intense and unwavering and focussed solely on Zayn. ‘Uh –’

‘Did Zoë’s dad show you another of his naked photos?’ Liam asks. 

‘Did Zoë make you get your dick pierced?’ Louis adds, eyes widening with inappropriate excitement.

‘That’d be weird, to match her dad,’ Harry says, looking a bit nauseous, and Liam stiffens in alarm.

‘Wait, Zoë’s dad has a _dick_ piercing?’

‘I’ve always wondered, where actually _is_ the piercing? Like, on the dick. Where is it?’

Zayn groans. ‘ _Louis_ –’

‘I’ve heard it’s on the balls, isn’t it?’

‘No, that’s a different thing entirely.’

‘So where? There’s friction to think about here –’

‘What happens if you get a boner when they’re piercing it? Fucking awkward.’

‘Surely it’s not like… on the tip? How do you piss?’

‘Guys,’ Zayn says loudly, because the lady on the table next to them is shifting away like she’s spotted a bomb in one of their rucksacks. ‘Can we stop talking about my girlfriend’s dad’s penis?’

Silence befalls them, except for Harry who snorts into the back of his hand at the look of disgust on Zayn’s face, biting the skin to shut himself up when Zayn glowers at him. Zayn gives him the finger, unimpressed and Harry recovers enough to stick his tongue out. _Child._

‘Seriously, though, tell us what’s the matter,’ Liam says, nudging Zayn with his foot under the table. Zayn drags his gaze away from Harry to look back at him, the wide, brown eyes, all earnest and caring, and he feels the simmering terror return, the soft purr of a car at traffic lights, waiting to roar and burn up on the tarmac in a puff of smoke. 

‘It’s just, like, scary. You know?’ He looks between Louis and Liam, and at Niall, who’s returned with the drinks. ‘I’m gonna be a _dad._ I don’t feel old enough to be a dad.’

‘You’re not far off twenty-seven.’

‘Practically ancient,’ Niall adds brightly, and someone should remind him that he’s only a year younger but nobody bothers.

‘I know, but … I feel like I should know so many things, and I don’t.’ He gulps, looking down at the tiny surface layer of foam on his pint. ‘Zoë always seems so sure and I… What if I’m shit?’

He says it so quietly he’s almost not sure they’ve heard him, but when he peeks up through his eyelashes to check, four pairs of beady, anxious eyes are staring back at him.

‘ _Zayn_ ,’ Louis says emphatically, and Zayn stiffens in anticipation, thinking momentarily that Louis might actually say something sentimental, that for once, Louis might speak in earnest, before the illusion is shattered and he continues with, ‘The only thing you have to worry about is if your kid turns out to be a humongous nerd like you.’

Zayn’s shoulders slump and he exhales a laugh. ‘Oh, cheers, Lou.’

‘And that wouldn’t be the most _awful_ thing in the world,’ he says reassuringly, punching Zayn in the thigh for emphasis. ‘I mean, you’ve done all right, yeah?’

‘Cambridge graduate,’ Liam adds, ever helpful.

‘With a Third,’ Zayn mumbles grouchily.

‘At least you finished uni,’ says Harry with a shrug and a tiny smile.

‘Zoë’s at least ten times out of your league,’ Louis points out.

‘Plus there’s all of us to help out if you ever do anything terrible,’ Niall says cheerily. 

‘You should probably start worrying about all the dirt we have on you, though,’ Liam says, sipping his drink and grinning mischievously. ‘Oh, Mini Malik, I once caught your dad crying when he stepped on a frog in the garden –’

‘I was hungover!’ Zayn snaps defensively, not for the first time.

‘– and then he buried it in a PG Tips box.’

‘Once your dad un-ironically wanked to Shakira’s _Whenever, Wherever_ ,’ Harry chimes in, grinning at him. ‘And then told everyone at school.’

‘No, _you and Louis_ told everyone at school.’

‘I walked in on your dad giving Uncle Harry here a big kiss on more than one occasion,’ Louis adds. ‘And when I say kiss, I definitely mean blowjob. And when I say more than one occasion, I mean at least once a week for a whole fucking summer.’

Everyone laughs, even Harry, who presses his hands to his reddening face and hides behind his fingers, shoulders curving in embarrassment. Zayn feels like he’s meant to laugh too so he does, but he feels impending emotional chaos at the way Harry peeks out from behind his fingers to check if the assault is over, hair catching in the fraying collar of his t-shirt. Zayn busies himself with draining his pint, not looking up until he can see clear out of the bottom of the glass.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Pints of cider inch slowly into glasses of spirits, gin and tonics, vodka cranberries, jack and cokes. Zayn feels a little shiver of guilt when he’s on his third mixer, an ice-cold raindrop of remorse slipping down his spine when he thinks of Zoë alone at home, dropped off there by her parents as Zayn went for a ‘ _quick drink with the lads_ ’. But she’ll be asleep by now, probably, and he’ll make it up to her tomorrow, cook her a three-course meal and give her a massage or something.

Thankfully, conversation turns away from Zayn and to the others. Niall is moving in with Laura, the nicest and loudest and most enthusiastic of all of Niall’s previous girlfriends. Sophia’s decided she wants to be a wedding planner after the military operation that was her and Liam’s nuptials. She’s offered her services to Louis and El, but their wedding is going to be decidedly more homemade, the kind of affair where they hand out disposable cameras instead of hiring photographers, and there’s a hastily thrown together finger-buffet instead of a sit-down meal.

‘You ever think about getting hitched, Zayn?’ Niall asks.

‘Zo doesn’t believe in marriage,’ Zayn says quickly, which doesn’t entirely answer the question but nobody pushes him further. 

Harry’s unusually quiet during all of this, smiling when someone catches his eye, thumbing at the wet edge of his glass and playing with his hair, tucking it behind his ear and then shaking it out again, over and over. And staring at Zayn when he think Zayn isn’t paying attention, blinking and chewing his lip. Just watching quietly, carefully, and looking away when Zayn meets his eye. He excuses himself to get another drink while the rest of them are in the midst of giving Niall advice about living with a girl – _always, and I repeat always, put the seat down_ – and Zayn turns to watch him loping slowly towards the pub, hands in his tight pockets, head down, hair catching in the breeze.

He’s left his phone on the table, and it brightens the second Zayn turns around, the screen illuminating right by Liam’s arm. He knows he shouldn’t look, but nobody else seems to be paying attention so Zayn leans forward and peeks at the text notification. From Gemma, _Are you having fun? What time will you be home? There’s ¬–_

The rest of it is cut off, and Zayn sits back heavily, confused. There’s no time to dwell on it, though, because Niall’s slapping Zayn’s half-finished drink into his hand and pushing it towards his mouth.

‘Drink up, Malik!’ he bellows with a manic sort of grin. ‘In two months time, you’ve got eighteen years of nights at home on the sofa to be a boring sod!’

Zayn’s eyes widen, and he drinks and drinks and drinks, until cranberry juice is dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyelashes are drooping, and the panicked Catherine Wheel of his heart, flinging fireworks into his bloodstream, dulls to a dim spark that he’s blissfully, if only temporarily, able to ignore.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

They drink until the pub closes and then loudly stumble off back down Southbank to Waterloo, all of them far too drunk to care about modesty, or grace, or maturity. Louis conducts an impromptu photoshoot in the skate park, the other four of them draping themselves against the graffitied walls, pretending to kiss the sprayed version of Tony Blair, crying with laughter when Liam slips and tumbles head-first down one of the ramps.

And then they’re at Waterloo examining the train times in a drunken haze of confusion. Zayn knows very well he needs to get the Northern Line to Chalk Farm, but Louis seems to have completely forgotten how he got here in the first place, and Niall, who lives in Hackney, remembers after ten minutes of squinting up at the electronic boards that he needs to get a bus, staggering off back outside with a laugh. 

Liam nearly misses his train back to Vauxhall, swearing loudly and bolting off to platform 12 without a goodbye, and then it’s just the three of them, Zayn, Louis and Harry, like old times, happily drunk and not exactly in a rush to get home.

‘I’m hungry,’ Louis announces, and that’s how they find themselves in the station’s McDonald’s, crowded together on the world’s smallest, stickiest table, slurping even more drink from plastic straws and stuffing burgers into their mouths. 

Harry seems suddenly incapable of eating like a normal human, his tongue sticking out to catch food but forgetting to close his mouth so the chips fall right out. It’s probably the most hilarious thing this world has ever seen, and for a good ten minutes, Zayn and Louis film it from every angle, ignoring the disapproving looks from everyone around them, howling until all three of them are crying. Louis laughs so much he manages to knock his drink off the table, and as he’s scrabbling around with napkins and batting away the advancing mop with a yelled ‘ _It’s fine, love, I’ve got it!_ ’, Zayn grins and reaches to feed Harry chips. He’s got three clutched between his fingers, waving them around just because it’s funny watching Harry’s eyes follow them, and then he presses them against Harry’s salt-speckled lips, waiting for his mouth to open. It does, in a brief, tortuous flash of pink, and then Harry’s chewing, swallowing, a smile pulling at his lips, but Zayn’s fingers aren’t moving away. They’re hovering by his mouth, so close they’re nearly touching, and his heart’s beating hard and fast, slamming against his ribcage with all the force of a fucking steam train. 

Harry looks at him, eyes glassy in the fluorescent McDonald’s lighting, blinking slowly, and when Zayn brushes his fingers lightly – so, so fucking lightly – against Harry’s lips, they part and suddenly Zayn’s fingers are enveloped inside the wet heat of his mouth. He feels Harry’s tongue lick the salt off his fingers, his lips brushing against the middle knuckles, staring right at Zayn, and it’s – it’s everything, a vibrating pulse bursting through him, wrenching open every locked door in his brain and screaming at him _WAKE THE FUCK UP_ because he is, he’s awake, he’s alive, and everything’s flipping upside down like it hasn’t in years and at the centre of it is Harry, Harry’s lips, Harry’s tongue, Harry giving him that look that says more than anything else in the world.

‘Oi, Zayn, give me some of your Coke,’ yells Louis melodramatically, throwing himself into the seat next to Zayn and tearing the moment clean in half. Zayn rips his fingers from Harry’s mouth, wiping them on his jeans hastily and passing his drink to Louis. He and Harry don’t look at each other again.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

The tube rattles back to Chalk Farm and Harry’s at Zayn’s side, without explanation, but Zayn doesn’t want to ask. Chalk Farm isn’t far at all from Primrose Hill, after all. He offered Zayn one headphone when they sat down, and they’re listening to _Rumours_ , which Zayn knows is definitely Harry’s favourite album of all time, but Harry reminds him anyway, and Zayn just smiles softly and nods.

Zayn watches him, the way his fingers tap against his knees in time with Mick Fleetwood’s drumming, the way his mouth slurs around lyrics he mumbles under his breath. He doesn’t look at Zayn once, preoccupied with tracing his fingertips over the swirls on the fabric of the empty seat on his other side. Zayn thinks of his fingers in Harry’s mouth, Harry’s fingers in his mouth in Barcelona, and has to close his eyes.

Then they’re spilling out of the station and somehow they’re holding hands, their fingers slotted together in a clammy, tentative box joint, and Zayn doesn’t know who reached for who but he’d rather fall headfirst through a crack in the pavement then let go, so he doesn’t. Harry leans into him heavily, their shoulders knocking together, tripping over his stupid pigeon-toed feet, and with his free hand, Zayn reaches for the crook of Harry’s elbow, hanging onto his arm with both hands like he’s scared Harry might run away.

‘You’re walking me home,’ Zayn points out in a carefully observant voice, squeezing Harry’s hand.

‘Yeah, looks like it.’

‘You’re holding my hand.’

Harry laughs, and when Zayn glances at him his eyes are bright, soft, slightly glassy from the alcohol, his lower lip caught between his teeth. ‘No Zayn,’ he says, voice low and playful, ‘ _you’re_ holding my _hand_.’

Zayn stares straight back, and thinks, quite clearly, _Is this flirting?_ , and then, _I shouldn’t flirt_ , and then his mouth is opening and his tongue is moving and somehow he’s saying, ‘Oh, am I?’ in what is definitely a flirty voice. Harry’s smile broadens. _Oh fuck_.

‘Practically jumped me in the street,’ Harry says, shuffling a bit closer so their sides are pressed together. ‘I had no choice.’

‘Oh right, I see.’ 

‘Had to fend you off with a stick.’

‘A stick? Is that what people call them nowadays?’

‘Let the record show this is all of _your_ doing,’ Harry says, all fond and sweet and light and awful, his thumb gentle against Zayn’s palm. ‘I was coerced.’

Zayn stares at him with the force and intensity of an insane person, even though he’s definitely smiling. He can feel the pull of it in his cheeks. ‘Crime by coercion’s still a crime,’ Zayn manages to say, somehow. ‘Girlfriend’s a lawyer, init.’

Harry’s smile slips so fast it’s almost funny, except this is possibly the least funny thing to ever happen in modern history. Zayn wants to snatch up the drooping ends and pin them back to his face, press the dimples back into his cheeks with his thumbs, like kneading dough. Harry looks away from Zayn, blinking down at the pavement as his hand loses its grip against Zayn’s, and it’s absolute terror that engulfs Zayn then, an ice-cold avalanche slipping right down his spine and pooling in a heap in his stomach. 

‘Hey!’ he says desperately, bumping his hip against Harry’s and holding his hand in a vice death-grip, so hard it must hurt. ‘Secret for secret?’

He thinks for a horrifying moment that Harry might say no, but then he peers up at Zayn almost shyly, a smile pulling at his mouth again.

‘Go on.’

Zayn smiles hugely, tongue against his teeth. ‘’Kay. I stole your cologne, last year. At your party.’

Harry frowns for a minute, eyes widening, and then he laughs. He laughs and laughs, skin by his eyes wrinkling, stupid lovely rabbit teeth on full display, and he looks like the sun. He is the sun. It’s so dark out here, but Harry’s the sun, illuminating everything, and with this clarity Zayn remembers that all the parts of himself that have been missing are made up of Harry, every knotted thread and sweep of plaster and tight, snug joint that fits everything together. He’s been surviving like a chewed up corpse in a zombie apocalypse, whole chunks of him spat out. He’s not been whole in a long, long time.

‘Why, may I ask?’

‘Dunno,’ Zayn says, and it takes incredible effort to shrug casually. ‘Like how you smell.’

‘Oh,’ Harry says with a raised eyebrow. ‘ _Do you now._ ’

‘Haha,’ Zayn chokes out. The hair on the back of his neck is on end. ‘Not in a weird way.’

‘Is a bit weird.’

‘It’s familiar. That’s all.’

‘You’re just a right serial killer, aren’t you?’ Harry jokes, smiling still, and before Zayn can respond he lifts their intertwined hands and presses a kiss to the inside of Zayn’s wrist, nose brushing against the skin. He looks right at Zayn as he does it, eyes so soft Zayn feels like he could climb right in them from the monkey-bars of his eyelashes and feel warm, and something in him feels like there’s something huge and heavy, tar or lead or stone or an entire galaxy, that takes residence in Zayn’s body and starts pushing out from the inside, blowing him up. ‘Don’t smell like me anymore,’ Harry says gently.

_What the fuck is happening._

‘My secret, then,’ Harry goes on, mouth against Zayn’s pulse. It takes everything in Zayn not to just clatter to a halt and fucking die. ‘I haven’t had sex in ages.’ There’s a heated, pulsating pause as Harry lets their hands fall. He sniffs and his eyes drift to look at something over Zayn’s shoulder before letting his gaze slide back again languidly, blinking in slow motion. ‘Like. A long time.’

Zayn suddenly can’t swallow. ‘Neither,’ he breathes. ‘Long time.’

There’s another awfully loaded silence. Some strange alarm is blaring in Zayn’s head and all his blood is gurgling like it’s being boiled on a stove and he finds he can’t really feel his feet when they press against the pavement, like he’s frozen. 

And then, for no reason at all, he remembers Zoë. His girlfriend. His unborn child. The cold, empty space in bed where he should be. And it’s not guilt that brings him back, that launches him back from the thin, golden stretch of possibility between him and Harry, but a sense of alarm, because he thinks of her and the empty bed and he doesn’t even care.

‘Um,’ he starts, being careful reaffirm some distance between him and Harry on their next step forward. He keeps his hand, though. There’s no way he’d let go of that. ‘You know your house is in the other direction, yeah?’

Harry hesitates, inhaling loudly through his nose. ‘Mmm, yeah.’

‘Do you want to call a cab from mine? It’ll only cost you a fiver back to Primrose Hill.’

Harry looks down at his feet. ‘Uh. I’m not really going there, actually.’

‘Oh,’ Zayn says, confused, and he wonders whether Harry’s asking to stay. He has a brief, molten flash of him and Harry fucking in the bathroom of Zoë’s flat, hands over each other’s mouths, watching themselves in the mirror of the sink, and he stumbles over a raised paving slab. If Harry asked, he wouldn’t say no, and that knowledge scares and excites him so much he can’t breathe. ‘How come?’

‘I … don’t live there anymore.’

‘You don’t?’

There’s a heavy pause, broken only by a car horn blaring in the distance. They’re slowing to a gradual halt without realising, and Zayn squeezes Harry tighter. 

‘I live with Gemma now.’

‘Why?’

Harry turns to look at him. ‘Because Nick and I aren’t together anymore, Zayn.’ 

More silence, this time tense and fragile, and Zayn stares back at him blankly. The news feels like it should detonate something in Zayn, sparking the fuse that burns towards a little black bomb waiting to explode inside him, but instead it feels icy, a creeping, spidery hand grabbing hold of his throat, his heart, freezing him numb.

‘What?’ Zayn says. His face might be doing something alarming but he can’t be sure, and his hand goes heavy in Harry’s, his other arm swinging to his side like a dead weight. 

‘He came to visit me in LA, and it was – we knew. We’ve known for ages, but out there, there’s nowhere to hide, you know?’ Harry swallows, eyes to the floor like he can’t bear to look at Zayn, and Zayn feels like he should be reacting to it but there’s just that ice-cold fist winding his insides into knots. ‘We couldn’t hide behind the fact that we’ve been together for so long and that we – we have so much together, like a whole life that’s ours. Our house, our friends, everything – that just doesn’t mean anything when you’re away from it. It’s exposing. It was… fucking awful, to be honest.’

Harry sneaks a glance at Zayn, his eyebrows pinched, and Zayn wants to say something but he’s lost the ability to speak, or blink, or breathe, and so he just stares back with wide-eyed horror.

‘Everything was just …’ Harry trails off, exhaling and twisting a hand through his hair. ‘Well, we want different things. I want what you guys all have, you know, I wanna get married and have kids and just… be part of that life. You’re all so – so content, and I haven’t been… in so long I’ve been…’ He stops, licking his lips and blinking hard. ‘And he wants it too. But there was all these excuses, from both of us. Everything’s kicking off for me, with work, and Nick loves being so irresponsible, you know, getting drunk in the week, and it was fine. And there’s the distance now, and like – jealousy and paranoia and stuff, but we made it work and it was fine. But it wasn’t because we – we ran out of excuses.’ Harry’s bottom lip wobbles and he snatches his hand away from Zayn’s to pinch at his mouth with both hands, like that might stop him crying. ‘He said he thinks he’ll be trapping me, a few years down the line. He doesn’t want me to feel trapped, is what he said. And I –’

He gulps, breath shaky, and swipes the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘Sorry, Zayn, I don’t mean to … _shit_. I’m sorry.’

Zayn feels the weight of it then, smacking him straight in the centre of the chest, a big massive bowling ball weight, grinding his bones to dust. _Six whole years later, Harry’s finally single, and I’m about to have a baby, and the world is fucking wrong. It’s fucking wrong._

All he can do is wrap both arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in until Harry’s nose is against Zayn’s neck, damp eyelashes brushing against Zayn’s skin. Zayn presses the fingers of one hand into Harry’s neck, tangling with his hair, feeling Harry collapse into him, and he has to gather up every scrap of will-power he has not to break apart, bit by bit, and dissolve into the pavement at Harry’s feet.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Harry mumbles wetly against his neck, and for a moment Zayn’s transported back to every daydream he’s had for the last six years, of fisting Harry’s hair like he is now and bending him over his desk at work, the sofa in Zoë’s flat. Harry’s mouth, wet against his neck like it is now, in bed on Sunday mornings, soft and gentle, rousing Zayn from sleep. Harry inside him, pulling Zayn apart, yanking Zayn’s hair and letting Zayn be pliant and limp against him, letting Zayn be vulnerable. The pair of them walking hand in hand like they have tonight, except without the fear behind it, the knowledge they’re doing something wrong. It hurts so much that Zayn screws his eyes shut, biting the insides of his cheeks till he tastes blood. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ is all Zayn can say, and his voice sounds so hurt, even to his own ears, that Harry pulls back, little strands of hair sticking to his wet face. Zayn clutches at his shoulders, not letting him pull away further, handfuls of fabric caught between his fists.

Harry presses his fingers into Zayn’s waist, so hard it hurts. ‘I was meant to be helping you tonight, I know you’re so frightened and I… I just didn’t want to bother anyone.’

‘But before tonight, you should have said something. You’ve been upset.’

‘I think it’s more that I’m…’ Harry looks down at the pavement, his eyebrows puckered. ‘I’m just really afraid of being alone. God, that’s so awful isn’t it? We were together for years and that’s all I really care about. I’m such a prick.’ 

Zayn gulps, head swimming, and he closes his eyes. ‘Harry.’

‘I’m so fucking scared, Zayn,’ Harry says quietly. His hands are on Zayn’s chest now, nails pressing into his skin through his shirt. ‘You have no idea. It’s fucking _killing_ me.’

Harry leans into him again, arms snaking around his waist, cheeks pressed together. He smells like coconut shampoo and the same cologne he’s been wearing since he was eighteen and the oil from McDonald’s and the smoke from the pub, and Zayn can’t catch his breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says again, quieter now, and Zayn knows he’s apologising for more than almost crying, for not telling him. It’s bigger than the both of them, what Harry’s apologising for, because it’s everything that could have been and everything that wasn’t. And even though there’s nothing certain about that distant, former possibility, it hangs so close Zayn feels like he could reach out and touch it, pull the flimsy netting of it towards him and wrap it around the tangled figure of both of them, hide them from the last six years.

‘I should go,’ Harry says into Zayn’s shoulder, voice thick. ‘Gemma’s is all the way in Kensal Rise.’

Zayn squeezes him tighter for a moment, hands clawing at Harry’s back like he wants to fuse them together, inhaling him harshly, feeling it burn sour and hot and grey in his chest before he pulls away. They stare at each other, unblinking, and it’s impossible not to notice the way Harry’s gaze slides down, charting the lines of Zayn’s face, ending at his mouth. His tongue sneaks out to wet his own lips, and his fingers dip under Zayn’s shirt lightly, almost imperceptibly brushing the bare skin of Zayn’s waist. It ignites Zayn’s heart, sends a burning shiver down his spine, and –

Zayn pulls away. ‘I think you should.’

At last Harry blinks. There’s so much icy space between them that it could freeze over the whole universe, make icicles out of oceans, and when Harry’s face falls, the temperature drops so low it feels like the glacier pavement cracks under Zayn’s feet. 

Zayn’s a lot of things, a lot of _awful_ , horrible things, but he won’t be that guy that cheats on his pregnant girlfriend. However much he wants to. He’d never forgive himself.

‘Fuck,’ Harry breathes. ‘Shit, Zayn, I’m so sorry –’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I didn’t – I don’t want you to – I know Zoë is and I … I wasn’t thinking –’

Zayn runs a hand over his face tiredly, and he can’t even look at him now, can’t bear to take in Harry’s wide eyes and soft, anxious mouth. Listening to Harry apologise for whatever potential situation just got crushed between them hurts much more than it should. ‘Get a cab from by the station, yeah? Text me when you get home safe.’

‘Will do.’ Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, scuffing at the pavement with his shoe. ‘I, um. See you Thursday, then?’

‘At Niall’s barbecue, yeah.’

‘Okay.’

‘’Kay.’

Harry nods, turning away so when Zayn looks up he sees his shoulder muscles bunched up under his t-shirt, and Zayn has to spin around before he’s left to watch Harry walk away for the hundredth time. For a moment, the words _right person, wrong time_ float into the picture, hazy and uncomfortable, but they feel cheap and wrung out. There’s no doubt Harry’s the right person, and has always been, since they were teenagers, but when is the right time? One of them has always been one step ahead, the other trailing behind, and Zayn’s been waiting for the moment when they’re both at the same point before realising that’ll never happen. There’s been endless chances, mile upon mile of blank slates waiting to be grasped and scribbled all over, and neither of them have ever taken the chance.

Instead, there’s fear. Harry’s fear of being alone, of being let down and rejected and forgotten, and Zayn’s of giving himself up. He threw himself at a dream once, at Cambridge, and it was everything he never thought it would be. Harry’s always been far more important than that, and he has to be protected. Zayn’s known it for years, since Harry threaded his fingers through Zayn’s hair and smiled into his mouth in the summer of 2011 and fucking _ruined_ Zayn forever. Years have gone by where they’ve barely spoken, where they’ve looked through each other like strangers catching awkward eye contact on the bus, but that’s better than the alternative, better than throwing off their lifejackets and diving in head first, drowning in each other. Harry’s part of who he is, stitched into his DNA, burned into his bone marrow. Zayn can’t give Harry everything, because as resilient as he is, if it falls through he doesn’t know how he’ll carry on. 

It’s never been the wrong time. They’re adults now, with actual lives carved out for themselves, real, tangible facts chiselled carefully into stone that don’t wash away with the tide every morning. They can’t make excuses for their own failures anymore. 

But when he peeks over his shoulder, just to check, Harry’s still there. Face damp and red, curls drooping, shoulders slumped. Watching him.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Somehow, Zayn ends up taking Harry home in a cab.

Somehow, Harry lets them in with shaking hands into Gemma’s dark, sleeping house, the curtains in the windows drawn shut like eyelids, a clock ticking away like the walls are snoring. Harry’s bed has become a sofa, a soft blanket laid out across it, a graveyard of boxes looming around him.

Somehow, Zayn’s chest feels like it’s been gutted with rusty spoons.

’Like my place?’ Harry says with a breathy giggle, leaning heavily against the wall. The alcohol seems to have caught up with him, if his behaviour in the cab was anything to go by. Leaning into Zayn, pressing his nose against Zayn’s neck, whispering shit against Zayn’s shoulder. Continually sliding his hand up Zayn’s thigh despite how many times Zayn gently pushed it away.

’It’s more you than the Primrose Hill place,’ is all Zayn can think of to say, and it’s true. There’s a weird painting of what looks suspiciously like artsy genitalia suspended on the wall above the TV, and Harry’s guitar is in the corner, and even though it’s in boxes, at least all his stuff is out, all around him. Not shoved under the bed.

’Bit sad though, init?’ Harry says darkly, tripping forward with his eyes on Zayn. He looks very young all of a sudden, shiny-eyed and innocent and horribly fragile. ‘Almost twenty-six and sleeping on my sister's sofa.’

‘It’s not –’ Zayn starts, but then Harry flops heavily onto the sofa in question, feet flailing in the air, and Zayn decides abruptly that this conversation can wait. He steps gingerly towards Harry’s faceplanted body and strokes a tentative hand through his hair. ‘Shall we get you into bed, H?’

’Into sofa,’ Harry laughs into the cushion. ‘No bed.’

’Right, into sofa,’ Zayn says gently, prying him up by the elbows. He sits down next to him when Harry’s upright, almost smiling at how sweet he looks, his hair everywhere, his eyes still bloodshot and drooping, his mouth strange and red. He tugs at the hem of Harry’s holey t-shirt. ‘Shall we take this off?’ he asks carefully.

Harry licks his lips, eyes flashing. ‘You can take it off for me,’ he suggests in a low voice, leaning forward and catching himself on Zayn’s knee.

Zayn has a small heart attack. Harry tries to look sexy, blinks slowly and licks his lips again, but he’s swaying even though he’s sat down and his hand on Zayn’s knee is more for balance than anything. ‘Alrighty!’ Zayn tries brightly, yanking it off over Harry’s head like he’s a child and tossing it towards a nearby armchair. Harry blinks at him, dazed, and wraps his arms around his bare chest like he's holding himself together, shivering. He looks so young. Zayn can’t resist it, then, pressing one hand to Harry’s face and stroking the slope of his nose with his thumb. ‘Wanna sleep in your jeans?’

Harry shakes his head.

’Get those off, then. I’ll get you some water.’

He goes to stand, but Harry grabs his wrist in a vice grip, tugging him back down. ‘Don’t go,’ he says breathlessly, clawing at his t-shirt. ‘Don’t go, Zayn.’

’I just want to get you some –’

’Touch me,’ Harry breathes, half falling forward onto him. He splays himself across Zayn's torso, head tilted back, eyelids fluttering. ‘Please.’

Um.

Zayn takes a steady, careful breath. ’Harry… that’s not what we’re doing.’

’I know,’ Harry says, almost pouting. His bare chest is pressed right against Zayn’s torso, a collection of hard angles that make Zayn's skin feel like the wafer thin stretch of a plastic bag. ‘It’s annoying. Touch me.’

Zayn can’t help it; he laughs at him, at his stupid pouty lip and the helpless look in his eyes. He smiles brilliantly when Zayn laughs. ’I can’t. You know I can’t.’

’I’ll let you –’ He breaks off to hiccough, flopping about like a ragdoll while Zayn pushes him away and gingerly starts on removing his jeans. ‘– come in me, if you want.’

’You’ve got a filthy mouth, Harry Styles.’

’Don’t have to –’ Hiccough. ‘– wrap it up, if you know what I’m saying.’

’I definitely know what you’re saying.’

’You don’t wanna?’

’Not right now.’

’No fun.’

Zayn swallows. ’I know.’

Harry sighs and throws an arm across his face. ’Secret for secret?’

Zayn sighs, pushing Harry back to the sofa and staring down at him warily, folding the discarded jeans in his hands. ‘What?’

Harry smiles boozily, mouth loose. ‘You’re gonna be an amazing dad, Zaynie.’

Zayn’s heart suffers some kind of seismic ripple, big enough to upturn whole countries and depopulate all the oceans. Harry nods assuredly, eyes closed, his almost naked body tangled in the blanket. ‘Thanks,’ Zayn whispers, lips barely moving.

’You’ve been such a –’ He breaks off to hiccough again, pressing his face into the sofa. ‘– a good friend to me. Always h-helping me when I’m lonely, always c-coming over. Being there e-even when I was with Nick and j-just listening. Always listening.’

Zayn closes his eyes. ‘Harry.’

’I was awful to you. I always b-blamed you for everything. So bitter. But you’re still here.’

Something that feels an awful lot like guilt crystallises Zayn’s back under his t-shirt. ’Don’t ever say this is your fault, Harry. Please.’

'I’m so lonely,’ Harry mumbles. ‘I’m so lonely without you.’

It makes Zayn feel two feet tall. Harry had it all not too long ago. He thought Harry had it all, but now he’s drunk and sad and on his sister’s sofa, clutching at the cushions like he’s riding a mechanical bull, like he could be thrown off at any moment. Zayn crouches next to the sofa and strokes his thumb across Harry’s cheekbone, letting himself feel it for a moment, the scars he’s left all over Harry, the marks he’s scoured him with that he’ll never be able to take away. It’s so unfair it makes him feel like he could rip the world apart with just his hands, tear it in two right across the equator. He’d do it, if Harry asked. He’d do it. ‘I’m right here,’ Zayn says softly. ‘I’m right here with you.’

Harry gulps and then hums against the cushion. Zayn almost feels as drunk as Harry when he sees the spit glistening at the corner of his mouth, the way his hair falls and tangles with his eyelashes. He looks so breakable, but you couldn’t pay Zayn to break him again. Nothing in the world will ever feel as bad and evil and awful as breaking Harry has. ’Be with me always,’ Harry says. ‘Don’t leave me. I’ll die.’

’I’ll wait till you fall asleep,’ Zayn promises, soothing Harry with a thumb against his cheek.

And he does, crouching by Harry until his thighs burn and his wrist aches, until he’s forgotten what air feels like without Harry’s hot, deep breath in it, wrapping Zayn up in an atmosphere that just belongs to the two of them, alone.

Zayn heads back to his sleeping girlfriend, a headache crashing angrily between his temples as he tumbles through the dark flat and strips off his clothing, falling heavily onto the bed beside her. He runs a gentle hand over her huge, balloon-like stomach, ignoring the tears that dribble down his face and land in dark little craters on the sheet underneath them.

He stays like that, breath short and sharp, pillow damp beneath his cheek, until the thought of Harry sends him to sleep, one aching fall from consciousness at a time.

  
**_we messed around until we found one thing we said we could never ever live without_  
Thursday, 1st October 2020 ******  


 

 

‘Right. Be good, will you?’

‘Of course she will!’

Zoë glares at him. ‘I was talking to you.’

Zayn bounces Amber on his hip and schools his face into something indignant. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘You know what I’m trying to say, Zayn.’

‘I think I’m perfectly fucking capable of –’

‘DON’T SWEAR!’

‘– looking after her for a weekend,’ he finishes sheepishly. He checks Amber to see if she’s been permanently scarred by his slip of the tongue, but she’s just dribbling against his shoulder and looking over with wide, hazel eyes at the information boards.

Zoë stares at him doubtfully. ‘I’m being serious. Please don’t do anything to screw up our child.’

‘I won’t!’ Zayn snaps, irritated. ‘Can you at least pretend to have a single ounce of faith in me, Zo?’

‘You forgot about her in _Tesco_ , Zayn!’

‘For about a minute! And I was still in the shop, if you remember.’

‘Oh, so that makes it okay, does it?’

‘My parents used to forget me _all the time!_ I got lost for four hours once at Legoland and they only noticed when there was an empty seat in the car.’

‘That was the nineties, things were different –’

‘Not _that_ different –’

‘You don’t know half the things I’ve seen in court, there’s people out there who are _awful_ , you don’t understand –’

‘I know, I know, I don’t understand anything, I’m terrible, I get it.’ Zayn’s jaw tightens and he runs his free hand across his face. He doesn’t look at Zoë because he knows her expression will be painted with the farthest thing from sympathetic, so instead he copies his daughter and stares at the flight information. The plane to Venice takes off in just over an hour. ‘You ought to go,’ he says flatly.

Zoë extracts Amber from his arms, draws her in tightly and presses kisses to her brown little face, strokes her curls away from her eyes. She has such long, thick hair for a baby, a fact that’s pointed out to Zayn and Zoë multiple times a day and makes Zayn glow with inexorable pride. 

‘Bye, baby,’ Zoë whispers, hiding her face in Amber’s hair. ‘Look after Baba, okay?’

Zoë’s eyes are suspiciously damp when she hands Amber back, refusing eye contact with Zayn, and he’s grateful for it because he’s never seen her cry, not even when she was giving birth, and he wouldn’t know how to react. They stand there stiffly, mostly facing each other, neither of them taking a step forward.

‘See you, then.’

‘Yep.’

‘Drive safely home, okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t go too fast, Zayn, and –’

‘Strap her in properly, yes I know.’

‘Right.’

‘Okay.’ Zayn thinks they maybe ought to kiss goodbye, or at the very least hug, but then Zoë hauls her bag onto her shoulder and gives Zayn a formal squeeze on the elbow, and he guesses that’s that. ‘Well, have fun at the wedding.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You will. Remember what fun used to feel like?’

Zoë looks at him sharply. ‘Don’t be such a shit, Zayn.’

‘Don’t swear,’ Zayn chimes, mimicking her, and Zoë looks like she might slap him.

‘Zayn –’

‘You’ll miss your flight.’

‘Right.’

She gives him one last glower, strokes her fingers across Amber’s cheek, and then she turns and walks away. Zayn feels the weight on his shoulders lighten with every step she takes until she rounds the corner and is gone, and he feels buoyant, his daughter in his arms, a smile on his face, a spring in his step as he rushes from the terminal back to his car.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

It’s a short drive along the M11 from Stansted back to Wanstead, but Zayn drives it slowly, cautiously, sticking to the left-hand lane behind all the lorries in his terror that he might get distracted and do something stupid. Without Zoë breathing down his neck and yelling at him to brake whenever necessary, he’s scared he’ll suddenly forget how to drive, so he doesn’t even begin to _approach_ a reasonable speed, trundling along at a snail’s pace and letting everyone else overtake him.

Admittedly, Zoë’s caution is well founded, as Zayn drives mostly in second gear, whatever the speed, and often sits at the threshold of roundabouts for ten minutes because he’s scared he’ll get flattened the moment he inches forward. Still, he tries to drive with confidence just in case Amber has animal-like instincts and can sense his terror. He turns on the radio and bellows along to Harry’s latest song when it’s played, looking at Amber every few seconds to make sure she’s not somehow evaporated since the last time he checked.

By the time he makes it home and haphazardly parks half on the pavement, he’s sweating along his hairline and Amber’s starting to fuss, squirming around in her carseat and scrunching up her face in a dangerous kind of way. Zayn fiddles with all the confusing buckles and straps and locks with the urgency of someone trying to disengage a nuclear bomb, flinging them aside and lifting her out of the seat as quickly as he can, holding her in the air at arms length and beaming at her.

‘Look at you, Amby! You’re flying!’ 

He zooms her around above his head, thumbs under the armpits of her little blue jumpsuit, fingers covering the expanse of her ribcage, and after a complete rendition of every stupid noise he can make, Amber laughs. Relief floods over him at the site of her little mouth opening wide, eyes scrunching up appreciatively, and he cradles her to his chest, overcome with love like he is often these days, a love that dilutes his blood with gold and bursts through his veins to make his skin glow.

Kicking open the front door, he feels a little thrill when he sees Harry’s bag on the floor by the arsenal of shoes under the key rack. He calls Harry’s name but gets no reply, so he trots into the kitchen and allows his heart a moment of complete stupidity when he spies Harry through the glass doors leading to the garden. He’s there, shirtless even though it’s bloody _October_ and really not hot enough, jeans low and tight around his hips, shovel in hand and a bag of soil resting against his knees. Zayn raps against the glass softly with Amber’s little fingers and Harry looks over, his face blurring into an expression of delight as he throws the shovel towards the ground and bounds towards them.

‘Hello!’ he says as soon as he’s yanked the door open, snatching Amber out of Zayn’s arms immediately and smothering her with kisses. ‘How are youuu, Amby?’

Amber gurgles happily in reply, and Harry’s smile widens, biting at her cheek. Zayn clutches the counter for support. 

‘Of course you are! Most gorgeous girl in the whole world.’ He presses their noses together and bats his eyelashes against Amber’s cheek and delivers a loud smacking kiss to her chin and she squeals delightedly, grabbing at Harry’s hair in her tiny fists. He pulls her away from his face, smiling at her with a kind of adoration that morphs into a massive spear and slices open Zayn’s heart, and then he tucks her into his side and flashes a smaller, shyer smile to Zayn instead. ‘Hi.’

‘Hey.’

‘I hope it’s okay that I let myself in.’

‘That’s why you’ve got a key, H.’

‘Okay. Yeah, cool.’ He adjusts Amber against his naked hip and Zayn stares ferociously at Harry’s bare, muddy feet, worried that if he looks up at the long expanse of Harry’s chest and stomach he might actually faint. Harry clears his throat. ‘So I made a start. I ripped up some of the paving slabs and I’m gonna put this new soil down. It’s got fertiliser in it and all these nutrients and whatever, it’ll help the plants to grow.’

‘Yeah, sick.’

‘I know which plants I’m getting, I wrote a list, but I’ll go pick them up tomorrow, once this is all done.’

‘Brilliant.’ Zayn watches Harry stroke his thumb across Amber’s chubby knee, and something smart within him compels him to take a step back. ‘Want a drink of anything, Haz?’

‘I’ll have a brew if you’re making one.’

‘Course.’ 

Zayn takes Amber back and switches the kettle on, settling her in front of the television on her playmat before loping back into the kitchen and watching Harry through the window. The brown slope of his shoulders, the curve of muscle under the ink-stained span of his bicep, the flimsy skin stretched over his ribcage as he lifts up a hand to run it through his hair. Zayn stares and stares, mouth hanging open slightly, until Harry feels himself being watched and glances over his shoulder, and Zayn has to duck behind the counter.

Getting Harry to do up the garden in Zayn and Zoë’s new house was an idea met with a raised eyebrow from Louis and a stony-faced shrug from Zoë, but Zayn resolutely ignored them both because how on earth could this be a bad plan? Harry gets to completely redesign an entire garden, and Zayn and Zoë spare the expense of hiring a gardener, or the effort of having to do it themselves.

But now Harry’s standing half-naked in his garden, hair curling against his back, and Zayn realises what an atrocious, terrible error of judgement this has been. He has catastrophically, categorically fucked up.

Harry pads in from the garden and retrieves his tea from the side, smiling gratefully at Zayn. He has a smudge of soil on his nose and a faint t-shirt tan-line from his most recent stint in LA and a new tattoo on his arm, a naked mermaid reclining seductively against his skin. When Zayn had asked about it, Harry had just shrugged and said, ‘ _I like mermaids_ ’.

‘Did Zoë get off okay?’ Harry asks, tone light and friendly. Small talk in the kitchen. Two old friends. A man and his gardener. 

‘I bloody hope so, otherwise I’m in trouble.’

They both laugh, though it fades pretty quickly.

‘It’ll be weird for you without her here, won’t it?’

Zayn shrugs. ‘Yeah a bit,’ he says monosyllabically. 

Harry blinks at him, noting Zayn’s tone. He takes a gulp of his tea and then licks his lips, searching for something to say in the face of Zayn’s surliness. ‘What are you and Amber gonna do today, then?’

Zayn took a day off work so he could spend the day with Amber. It’ll be the first time they’ve ever been on a day out without Zoë there, and he smiles in spite of himself. Harry smiles back. 

‘There’s an exhibition I want to see at the V&A, I thought I might take her with me? Not that she’ll be able to appreciate it, but she usually has a nap for a few hours after lunch, so she could just sleep in her pram. And then maybe have a wander around Kensington Gardens. I don’t know.’

Harry nods, hair in his eyes. ‘Sounds great.’

Zayn’s grip on his tea loosens, and he stares at Harry for a moment before his mouth opens and suddenly he’s saying, ‘You should come.’

For a while, they’re both shocked.

Harry frowns and laughs falsely. ‘Oh, no, Zayn, I’ve got the garden –’

‘Who cares about the garden?’

Harry takes a little panicked step backwards, heat creeping up his neck. ‘I don’t know if I… just Zoë wouldn’t like –’

‘Please, H. Please come.’

Zayn reaches for his arm, wrapping his fingers tight around Harry’s wrist, and when Harry looks up at him there’s something in his eyes begging Zayn to let go. But maybe Zayn misunderstood, because when he does let go, Harry scrabbles for his hand and squeezes his fingers. Just once, but it’s enough.

‘Okay,’ Harry says.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Amber Malik is eleven months old, and she can say three words – Mama, Baba and ‘Awwy. The first time she said it, when Harry was bouncing her on his knees at one of Louis and El’s barbecues, he’d looked down at her like she’d just spouted a new gospel.

Louis was pretty indignant that, as her other godfather, he’d been shunned in favour of Harry, and proceeded to loudly tell Amber all afternoon that he was disowning her. Other than that, though, the momentousness of the occasion had been shrugged off by all. Except by Zayn. And by Harry. And by Zoë.

After the first few months of solidarity, shared sleepless nights and new baby terror and moments of rapture when she first laughed or sat up on her own, Zayn and Zoë’s relationship has all but deteriorated. Once upon a time, Zayn had found himself attracted to her lack of empathy, her self-confidence, her ability to be scary and mostly likeable all at once. But in the exposing light of exhaustion, of long car journeys to visit Zayn’s family in Bradford with a screaming baby, of whispered fights over glasses of wine after Amber’s been put down for the night, they’ve realised that they don’t really like each other anymore.

Light-hearted and playful teasing has been replaced by remarks intended to scald. Where once Zayn didn’t really mind her constant presence, their _togetherness_ , he now feels suffocated by her. He’s realised that most relationships don’t break down because of one big, clamorous blow out; instead they’re chiselled away piece by piece, an argument over what colour to paint a wall, another night sleeping facing the wall with your jaw set, every single white lie that spills out of your mouth and carves another chunk out of you both.

They haven’t had sex in three months. The last time anything at all happened, Zoë gave him a half-hearted blow job, and in the heat of the moment, when he breathlessly asked her to finger him, his hands in her hair, his head heavy and flopping forward on his neck, she looked up at him and, completely deadpan, said, ‘If you want someone to shove something up your arse, ask Harry.’ 

He came pretty fast after that, tugging hard at her hair, the thought of Harry crowding in from the corners of his brain, and when he was done and Zoë pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled away from him, all she had to add was, ‘You’re such a fucking mess, Zayn.’ 

And that was that.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Someone in the V&A thinks Amber is their baby.

They spend an hour and a half strolling around the exhibition, a collection of objects that are meant to summarise modern life, TV remotes and toasters and tax forms and lighters and Tesco loyalty cards. Zayn’s not entirely sure he understands why this is art exactly, but Harry nods and hums like it’s fucking ground-breaking, shaking his head in awe at the unplugged router dumped unceremoniously behind a glass box, so Zayn finds himself staring as appreciatively as he can at the random objects and tries to look just as impressed. Harry asks if he can push the pram, so Zayn lets him and attempts not to be too alarmed by the way his body reacts to the sight of it, of Harry quietly explaining the exhibition to Amber like she can understand, of Harry leaning over the handles and grinning down at her, face as bright as a fucking lighthouse. 

Afterwards they head to the tea shop in the museum, both of them commenting on the amazing high ceiling, the lamps huge white nests looming down over them, columns laced with blue and gold breaking the room in half. Harry collects them tea and slices of cake while Amber has a short, intense, terrifying meltdown and nearly screams the roof off, but like usual she quiets for no apparent reason – Zayn does nothing but rock her in his arms and beg her to stop, so it must just be when her lungs get too sore and she considers it a job well done – and she’s back in the pram asleep by the time Harry carefully brings the tray over. Zayn tucks Amber’s blanket back around her and strokes a hand gently across her cheek, and they’re in the midst of gathering the crumbs off their plates with spit-wet fingers and placing their bets on the gender of Louis and El’s imminent offspring, due early next year, when an old lady in a large hat hobbles over and makes a terrible mistake. 

‘What a gorgeous baby!’ she coos, and even though Zayn’s come to expect this high praise, he still feels himself inflate nonetheless. Harry beams at her, dimple pulling in his cheek, and she looks between the two of them with a fond look on her face. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Amber,’ Zayn says, and she claps her hands together like he’s told her how to crack the lottery.

‘Like the gem stone?’

‘Yep, that’s the one.’

‘So pretty!’

‘It’s Arabic, originally,’ Harry intercepts, looking at Zayn, still grinning. Zayn’s face does something embarrassing as he stares back at him, but he has no time to try and remould it because –

‘Such beautiful hair! I guess she takes after you, then,’ she continues, gesturing to Harry and laughing kindly. It should be funny because Zayn’s hair’s still quite short and Amber’s got a mop of brown curls just like Harry’s, but it’s not, because Harry’s face falls so quickly it makes Zayn’s heart feel like it’s been impaled with an ice pick, eyebrows puckering as he glances over at Zayn and then forces out a laugh. 

‘Oh, no, I’m just – uh. Just a friend. She’s his kid.’

The old lady gasps theatrically, clutching her hands to her chest. ‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry –’

Harry schools his face away from the weird, hurt sort of longing that’s reshaped all his features, the face he always makes when any of his friends speak to him about marriage or babies or Settling Down. ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’

‘I didn’t mean to assume you were – you know –’ She pauses awkwardly around the word. ‘ _Gay_.’

‘It’s okay,’ Harry says again, smiling brilliantly. ‘I am, actually.’

She looks understandably confused, hat wilting over her face, mouth opening wordlessly, and Zayn takes that as their cue to leave. They smile their awkward goodbyes and scurry from the museum, back onto the black and white paving stones of Exhibition Road, just two friends and a baby, nothing weird at all. Zayn considers a _Two and a Half Men_ joke, to lighten the mood, but the suggestion has been made and the damage has been done. 

‘That was awkward,’ is all he manages, not looking at Harry.

‘A bit.’

‘You didn’t have to confuse her like that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘ _I am gay, actually._ ’

‘Well, I am!’ Harry says indignantly. ‘I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed about assuming.’

‘Maybe she should be!’ Zayn says, a little too quickly. ‘I mean, I’m not gay.’

There’s a pause. ‘You are a bit gay, Zayn.’

‘I’m unofficially bisexual.’

Harry barks out a laugh. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

‘Well I’m not _out_ , am I?’

‘You don’t _need_ to be out. It doesn’t need to be a ceremony. Everyone who knows you knows you’re bi.’

‘Not my parents.’

‘No,’ Harry concedes, quieter now. There’s a pause. ‘You don’t intend on telling them, then?’

Zayn swallows. ‘Not really, no.’

He sneaks a glance over at Harry when he receives no reply, and his breath catches in his throat when he finds Harry looking back at him, hands shoved in his pockets, lips twisted in contemplation, a small crease between his eyebrows. 

‘Zayn,’ Harry mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. He glances up at the sky, almost exasperated, and laughs without humour. ‘Sometimes you confuse the shit out of me, you know.’

‘What?’ Zayn replies, gripping the pram handle hard. 

‘I just – I just wish I understood you. Properly.’ He blinks at Zayn, eyes wide but his gaze is steady, sure. He licks his lips, stares Zayn straight in the eye, and Zayn suddenly feels very, very small. 

‘You know me better than anyone,’ is all he says back.

Harry’s mouth twitches. Normally they’d look away from each other awkwardly, the fleeting snatch of eye contact too much to handle, but Zayn looks at Harry and Harry looks back, and the black and white diamonds on the floor and the brown buildings and the grey sky all melt and twist and slither into puddles of nothing, and still Zayn can’t look away.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

They end up on the sofa together, watching _Bake Off_. Harry made them dinner while Zayn bathed Amber and put her to bed, and they ate his weird, achingly bland vegetable medley on the floor in the kitchen. They laughed about Harry’s disastrous attempt at utilising Grindr in LA and Zayn told a boring anecdote about a stressful work project that Harry listened to intently, nodding and humming and frowning in all the right places, and then they washed up side by side, hips bumping.

And now, they’re watching _Bake Off_.

Harry’s at the other end, one arm behind his head as he frowns in concentration at the screen, but his stupidly ugly feet are in Zayn’s lap and Zayn’s having trouble keeping his eyes on the television. 

Harry keeps texting someone, is the thing, snatching up his phone from his lap whenever it vibrates, thumbs dancing across the screen before dropping it and turning his attention back to the telly. And Zayn feels irrationally jealous of whoever it is, because he’s here and Harry’s feet are in his lap, and yet Harry’s not entirely here himself, his mind somewhere else. On someone else. 

It’s like that one evening in April this year, where one of the guys Harry had been working with was doing a gig – at the Barfly in Camden, of all places. All of the lads went, drinking at the bar Harry used to hate, buying Harry _look how far you’ve come!_ shots, and one minute Harry was at Zayn’s side, pressed into him with their knees and elbows and shoulders touching, and the next he was gone, further up the bar with another guy’s mouth at his ear, a hand on his waist, a knee between his. 

And Zayn stared and stared and stared, an acrid, fire-red smoke billowing in his lungs as he watched Harry grin, watched Harry flirt and shrug and pout and not spare a thought for Zayn’s poor heart, which was disintegrating just feet away. The guy was taller than Harry, dark short hair slicked back, stubble dotted across his jaw. He was wearing a fucking Beady Eye t-shirt, for fuck’s sake, and just when Zayn thought he didn’t have a chance, he slipped his hand into Harry’s and pulled him towards the bathroom. Zayn actually stood up, heart in his mouth, the barstool scraping loudly against the floor, and Louis yanked him back down before he could take a step forward, or shout after them, or throw himself in their path and beg Harry not to do it.

‘Zayn,’ Louis hissed, actually angry, and Zayn stared back at him helplessly. ‘Let him try and live, for fuck’s sake.’

But he couldn’t – he sat there and stewed in it, the image of what they might be doing, letting it singe him, melting away layer after layer of patience, of integrity, of self-respect, until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He stumbled off in the direction of the bathroom, ignoring Louis and Niall shouting after him, because he just had to know, was all. Know what they were doing so he could forget about it and not let his imagination run away with him, tying a rope around his neck and dragging him off into dark fantasies of this stupid Beady _fucking_ Eye guy doing all the things Zayn’s been _dying_ to for years.

The bathroom was tiny and freezing cold, complete with lopsided, dripping urinals and dark, peeling wallpaper stained with scribbled declarations of love and apocalypse – _acid is falling from the sky_ – and Zayn leaned against the door and closed his eyes. Just wanting to hear, is all, just wanting to hear. 

For a few seconds he couldn’t hear much over the ringing in his ears, his own breathing, like when he used to block his ears as a kid when his sisters were arguing and he could hear himself louder, the rush of his blood, the heave of his lungs. But then he heard it – a gasp for air from the only engaged cubicle, a caught whine in the back of a throat, a little thump against the plastic partition wall. Zayn’s mouth dried up, felt stuffed full of cotton wool all the way to the back of his throat, but he couldn’t leave until he was sure, a masochistic need to hear Harry for certain. So he waited, trying to swallow and failing, until the sound of Harry breathing ‘ _fuck_ ’ and then grunting, once, twice, sliced through the room, through Zayn’s heart, and he was hurtling from the bathroom as fast as he could, pushing past strangers and Louis and Niall and Liam until he was outside, drowning in cold air. He thought it would make it better, hearing it, but it didn’t, and even now he can hear it if he tries to, the heavy expulsion of breath, Harry’s torn little ‘ _fuck_ ’ echoing inside his head like an ambulance siren over and over.

He stares at Harry, now, at his long, fluffy hair and the curve of his collarbones peeking out under his unbuttoned shirt, at the tease of his nipples pressing against the fabric, and he feels sick and scared and so, so sure all at once. He grabs hold of one of Harry’s ankles, traces over _dance again_ with the tip of his finger, and waits until Harry looks over at him.

He does, searching Zayn’s face with something muddled painting his own expression, nervous and unsure but weirdly determined, too. He clears his throat. ‘I was just texting Gemma,’ Harry says, eyes on Zayn’s finger trailing over his ankle. Zayn allows himself about two seconds to feel stupid for being jealous, before Harry continues, ‘Kensal Rise is a bit far, now.’

‘It is, yeah.’

‘I could get a cab.’

‘You could.’

‘But it is far.’

‘Yeah, it’s far.’

‘Might be traffic.’

‘It’s a bit late for traffic, init?’

‘You never know.’

‘True. You never know.’

Harry swallows, eyelids lulling momentarily when Zayn presses down with his nail over the last N. ‘Maybe I could stay here?’

‘Yeah,’ Zayn says. ‘Maybe you should.’

 

 

  
+++

 

 

There’re only two bedrooms in the house. Amber’s little bedroom is at one end of the corridor, overlooking the garden, and the master bedroom at the front, offering a view of the street, the opposite houses’ bins left spewing on the pavement for collection tomorrow morning, two long snakes of parked cars.

Only two bedrooms, and only one bed.

Zayn and Harry clean their teeth side by side in the bathroom, Zayn with a toothbrush, Harry with his finger. They’re shoulder to shoulder, faces lined up in the mirror, and when Zayn accidentally spits out froth on Harry’s hand, Harry laughs and wipes it on Zayn’s face. 

Zayn gives him a t-shirt to wear and checks on Amber while Harry gets into bed. His heart feels like a fucking bulldozer, shovelling up the rest of his organs and squashing them in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it as he switches off the hall light and pads back to his bedroom. 

Harry’s already in bed, on Zayn’s side which is half annoying and half heart-attack inducing, the covers pulled up to his chin. Zayn climbs in next to him, turning the light off and lying rigid like a corpse for a few minutes, eyes trained on the ceiling. But then, in the silence, he can hear Harry breathing. And suddenly he’s much too hot, hyperaware of Harry, his skin crawling with the knowledge he’s just inches away. He starts kicking about to get comfortable, their elbows and feet and hips colliding as he wriggles in the sheets and hopes the warmth radiating off Harry is enough to boil away the tension clawing its way across Zayn’s skin. 

‘God, you don’t half make me feel welcome,’ Harry says sarcastically, shoving at Zayn’s thigh. 

‘You’re taking up so much room!’

‘ _Excuse me_?’

‘Well, you are!’

‘What are you implying, Zayn?’

‘And you’re on my side! That’s my side.’

‘Well, good! I’m not gonna fucking sleep on Zoë’s side, am I?’

Zayn considers that a good point but he huffs anyway, pressing his face into the pillow. Harry turns to face him and Zayn can make out the line of his nose in the darkness, the edge of his jaw. Harry sticks out his tongue and Zayn wants it in his mouth.

‘You’re staying,’ he points out.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Obviously not.’ He swallows, buying himself time. ‘Like old times, yeah?’

‘Sort of,’ Harry says doubtfully. 

They lie in silence for a while, blinking at each other. Zayn fiddles with a loose thread at the corner of Harry’s pillow, mostly so he can feel Harry’s breath against his hand. 

‘You know,’ Harry starts saying, voice slow and smooth, ‘I reckon if I went to uni now, I’d like it.’

Zayn frowns. ‘Huh?’

‘I think I was like, a bit too overwhelmed by possibility back then. I wanted to do everything all at once, but now I think I wouldn’t mind it. Learning new stuff. Hanging out. Broadening the mind.’

‘I thought uni was just about sex and partying?’

‘That’s what _you_ said, Zayn.’

‘So did you.’

‘You said it first.’

Zayn licks his lips and huffs out a laugh. ‘Well, it wasn’t for me, was it? I just sat in my room trying not to cry.’

Harry smiles gently and prods Zayn with his foot. ‘Can’t you imagine me swanning around Cambridge?’

‘Oh honestly, you’d fit _right_ in now.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’d be that prick who brings organic free-range gluten-free sugar-free taste-free home-cooked meals to dinner.’

Harry laughs. ‘Fuck off, no I wouldn’t!’

‘You’d run across college with like – a billowing scarf. And a million books under your arm even though you have a perfectly good rucksack in your room.’ 

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘You’d be that guy in seminars who thinks he’s deep because he read Kafka when he was high once and unlocked some deeper meaning.’

‘ _Unlocked_. This isn’t Pokémon. You don’t get badges for being deep.’

Zayn laughs and feels himself shuffle closer. His hand moves from the pillow to the sheet between them, circling over the empty space. ‘Were you really just texting Gemma?’

‘Huh?’

‘You weren’t texting anyone else?’

There’s a pause. ‘Why does it matter?’

‘I’m just wondering.’

‘Why?’ Zayn carefully doesn’t answer, so Harry sighs, ‘Louis as well.’

Zayn feels his shoulder slump into the pillow in relief, and he moves closer still, until he can feel Harry’s bare legs against his own. ‘What was he saying?’

‘That I shouldn’t stay.’

‘Why?’ Zayn asks with a frown.

Harry doesn’t reply, just blinks back at him slowly. Zayn knows why it’s a bad idea, of course he does, but it kick-starts something in him, a confirmation that this is real, it’s happening, it’s tangible, touchable, right here in front of him. He lifts a hand from under the duvet and reaches for Harry’s face, thumb on his cheekbone, fingers curling under his jaw, the edge of his palm grazing Harry’s mouth. 

He wants to touch him everywhere. His thin, bony wrists and the soft part of his hips and the crease of his bum and the delicate curve of his ankles and his hairy, knobbly knees and the flimsy stretch of skin behind his ear and the sinewy part of his biceps.

‘Why?’ he says again.

‘You know why,’ Harry says, almost inaudibly.

Zayn thumbs at Harry’s bottom lip, watching as Harry’s eyelids quiver as he exhales, and that’s what surges Zayn forward, shoving like he’s got a wave behind him, pushing ahead for the first time in his life, carrying him without even a blot of resistance.

Something in him screams _jump!_ , because he never ever does, and it’s always Harry who throws himself into things, who rips out his own heart and shoves it at the chopping block and hopes for the best. Zayn doesn’t, not ever. 

Except now.

He leans forward and kisses Harry, presses his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth, screwing his eyes shut out of fear. There’s only the slightest moment of hesitation before he feels Harry collapse closer, hand flying up to grip Zayn’s shoulder, lips moving tentatively against his. It feels so right, so good and perfect and _right_ , that tears press at the back of Zayn’s eyes, but he keeps his eyelids shut tight and kisses Harry hard and concentrates on the feel of him under Zayn’s hands, under his mouth.

But then Harry pulls back. ‘Zayn,’ he says, breath on Zayn’s mouth. ‘You have a baby.’

‘I know,’ Zayn says, rolling his eyes, but he smiles and kisses Harry briefly. ‘Everything still works, you know. I didn’t deactivate.’

Harry laughs, wriggling even closer. His hand slides from Zayn’s shoulder to the back of his neck, nails digging into the fern tattoo. ‘And you have a… you have Zoë.’

Zayn swallows. There’s things he thinks he should feel, but he can’t sift through them now. ‘I don’t want to think about her right now.’

Harry freezes. ‘Zayn –’

‘I want you. I want you so much,’ Zayn whispers, mouth hot on Harry’s cheek, and he’s never meant anything in his life more than that. ‘I want you more than anything in the whole world, Harry. I’ve never stopped wanting you.’

Harry grips the back of his neck harder. ‘Zayn,’ he says, pained.

‘Please,’ Zayn gasps, and he’s begging now, drawing back to press his nose against Harry’s, and it’s all he wants and all he’s ever wanted, and he can feel his heart begging too, pounding against his ribs like fists against a closed door, pleading Harry to let him in. ‘Please.’

_Please._

And then Harry kisses him.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

His mouth tastes like mint, and underneath there’s the tiniest hint of garlic and onion which should be disgusting but it’s not. Oh, fuck, it’s not at all.  
They’re gripping at each other, Zayn’s hands tangled in Harry’s hair, Harry’s clinging to Zayn’s shoulder, his waist, his back. His tongue is soft and unsure in Zayn’s mouth, his lips closing and pulling and pressing against Zayn’s, but with every hesitant stroke of his tongue Zayn melts closer, tugging at Harry until their entire bodies are flush, hips and chests and knees pressed together. He wants to see, wants to lean back and turn the light on and prop Harry up so he can see the pull of his eyebrows and the blond tint to the ends of his eyelashes and the devastating pinkness of his mouth, but he feels like if he stops kissing Harry the world will break in two so he doesn’t. He has to feel instead.

He strokes all of the lines and curves of Harry’s face, the stubble across his jaw, the soft slope of skin under his bottom lip, the stretched surface of his neck. He pushes his hands up Harry’s t-shirt and traces the jagged slabs of muscle, the bow of his waist, the stiff peak of his nipple. Harry’s mouth loses rhythm when Zayn’s fingers brush over it, pausing against Zayn’s so that Zayn ends up mostly kissing his chin, but when Zayn pinches it between his fingers his breath stutters. Zayn feels Harry’s dick twitch against his thigh, thickening up, and Harry gulps.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, tucking his face into Zayn’s shoulder with embarrassment, and Zayn doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he mutters back, smiling against Harry’s hair as he presses down on Harry’s lower back with the flat of his palm. His hips rub against Zayn’s and Zayn hears his breath hitch again at the friction, the scrape of his hardening cock against Zayn’s hipbone.

They kiss again, and it’s slow and dirty this time as Harry grips Zayn’s waist and grinds against him. Zayn shivers at the heat of Harry’s mouth, claws at his hair to pull him closer even though there’s no space between them at all, but they’re not close enough, not even when Zayn tugs so hard at Harry’s hair that he whines and his hips jolt forward, rubbing himself off properly now against Zayn’s hip.

Zayn snakes a hand between them, squeezes over the top of Harry’s boxers and finds them damp under his palm, stretched achingly tight. 

‘Fuck, shit,’ Harry breathes, biting at Zayn’s lip as he tugs back the waistband and pulls Harry’s cock free. Harry scrambles for Zayn’s waist, reaching for him too, but Zayn shakes his head and their noses brush together like an eskimo kiss.

‘Just you,’ he says, pressing one soft kiss against Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s eyebrows pucker. His lips are so wet, even in the darkness, that it makes Zayn lightheaded. ‘But I –’

‘Later,’ Zayn promises, and whatever Harry was about to argue morphs into a groan when Zayn rubs his thumb over the wet head of his cock. His hand’s a bit dry and the friction is probably too much, but Harry still kisses Zayn desperately, rolling his hips forward into Zayn’s hand, his fingers scrabbling for purchase at Zayn’s shoulders, at the patch of skin under Zayn’s ear.

Zayn had wanted to do it slowly, wank Harry off until he started squirming, gasping, begging for it, but Harry’s so eager that Zayn can’t help but speed up, his fist a blur between them until Harry can’t kiss him anymore, his wet mouth finding the seam of skin between Zayn’s shoulder and neck instead. 

‘Fuck, Zayn,’ he groans, and Zayn’s eyes flutter shut, drinking it in, savouring it. ‘Oh, shit, shit –’

‘Come on,’ Zayn says through gritted teeth, lapping at Harry’s neck, tongue stroking the strained vein under the skin. ‘Come on, H.’

Harry gulps. ‘Harder,’ he mumbles, and Zayn’s not even sure if that’s possible but he tries anyway, squeezing so hard his wrist aches. 

‘Close?’

Harry groans, hips jerking. ‘Mmgh. Want you to fuck me.’

Zayn blinks. They never did that too much – Zayn was always too desperate to feel Harry splitting him open and Harry more than eager to comply. He tries to think back to how many times they’ve switched and he can only remember a small, golden handful off the top of his head. He moans at the memory, though, the noises Harry made, the crazed, frantic look on his face. ‘You –?’

‘Fuck me. Please.’

‘Harry –’

Harry’s fucking Zayn’s hand fast now, hips jerking wildly. He whines when Zayn squeezes a bit too hard, his hair a mess all over his face and creeping into the corners of his mouth, and it sends a shiver jolting up Zayn’s spine.

‘Want you _in me_ ,’ Harry gasps, clutching at his own hair. ‘Fuck me.’

Zayn’s fucking dizzy, high on Harry, vision smudging like his hand between them. He bites hard at Harry’s neck, hard enough to hurt, and Harry makes a choking sound like he’s being strangled and then he’s coming, hips jerking, face hidden in Zayn’s shoulder. _Don’t hide_ , Zayn nearly begs, but he bites his tongue to silence himself, so hard he tastes blood.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn’s got his eyes screwed shut, teeth biting down so hard on his bottom lip he can feel his nerves screaming at him to stop, but he can’t. Both his arms are above his head, gripping at the pillow, and when he feels another jolt of it, a thrill of pleasure that fucking _scorches_ him, it shocks a gasp out of him, like touching a hot pan and realising a second too late it’s burning you. Harry’s so hot, so tight around Zayn that it’s almost _too_ hot, too much, but it’s better than anything in the world, the feel of Harry around him. He turns his face into the pillow and tries to calm down, but his lungs are heaving so hard he feels they might collapse and it’s almost frightening, how much he wants and how this is so much, _too_ much, and still not enough.

‘Zayn,’ Harry says breathlessly, leaning forward, and he thumbs at Zayn’s face, pulling clumsily at the corners of his eyes and at his eyebrows until Zayn’s heavy eyelids wrench open. He finds Harry inches away from his face, hazy green eyes and red, puffy lips and flushed cheeks. ‘You look like you’re dying,’ Harry jokes, kissing Zayn’s nose, biting at Zayn’s jaw, and Zayn heaves out a laugh. 

Harry pulls back again, but not as far away as before, not leaning back with his new laurel tattoos on show. Instead he puts a palm either side of Zayn’s face and holds himself up from there, hair falling over his face, one strand sticking to his damp cheek in an unbelievable curl, like a Tim Burton character. Zayn finds energy from somewhere to cross his eyes and stick his tongue out, a cartoon caricature of death, and Harry laughs so much his eyes screw up at the corners.

Zayn rubs a hand up and down Harry’s ribs, trying not to let his eyes close because they turned the light on so Harry could see him, so he could see Harry, and he has to repeat that to himself over and over because his eyelids are _so_ heavy, like he’s high, like he’s a kid trying to stay up after his bedtime. All these years whenever he thought about them fucking, he mostly imagined _he’s_ the one getting fucked because he loves it so much, the stretch of Harry inside him. But he’d forgotten how good Harry looks like this, how well Harry takes it, how heavy and sharp he is and how helpless he makes Zayn feel when his entire weight is pinning Zayn down onto the mattress. 

Harry shifts up on top of him before grinding down and they both moan in unison, an indecent sound that fills the room and has Zayn jolting his hips up to meet him. Harry reaches an impatient hand to push his hair back from his face, lips rubbing together, chest stuttering when Zayn presses his nails into his thigh, and a burst of something hot and bright storms through Zayn, wraps around his heart like stained glass. 

‘You look so good,’ Zayn hears himself saying, but it’s like he’s not there at all, like he’s watching from the ceiling. His own voice sounds rough and slurred, like he’s just downed a bottle of vodka without stopping, and he hears himself hiss when Harry rolls his hips down harder. 

‘Yeah?’ Harry breathes, eyelids so droopy Zayn can barely see any green at all. His hair flops right back in front of his face, casting shadows across his cheeks, and his lips pull up at the corners, a fucked-out smirk. ‘Tell me, Zayn.’

‘Cocky shit,’ Zayn says, exhaling a laugh, and Harry laughs too, licking his lips and picking up the pace so Zayn swears again, his hand falling from Harry’s waist to fist at the sheets. ‘You’re so full of it.’

‘ _Yeah_ I am,’ Harry says with a dirty grin. ‘Very… full.’

Zayn laughs again, but it breaks off into a groan, a breathy sequence of _ah, ah, ah_ when Harry moves faster so the mattress quivers beneath them.

Harry's eyes are completely closed now. His lips are hanging open, twisting into a grimace whenever Zayn fucks up into him and it gets too much, and Zayn can see the pink walls of his mouth, the wet flat of his tongue. He looks so unreal, like something right out of Zayn's imagination. But that's not a surprise, seeing as all of Zayn's fantasies for the last decade have been composed of Harry, pieced together into a lethal image that doesn't even do the real thing justice.

‘Did you think of me?’ Zayn hears himself rasp. He reaches clumsily for Harry’s cock between them, and Harry gasps loudly and it’s fucking _obscene_ , jerking forward so abruptly Zayn nearly slips out of him. ‘Harry. Did you think about me?’

He’s talking shit – he always does, during sex like this, when he gets like this. He couldn’t remember his birthday if you asked him now, but his mouth is babbling away without permission and his brain’s too full of Harry to stop him. And it’s just so different than it is with Zoë, even when Zoë used to be rough with him, all those years ago, because Harry’s all flat and long, all hard lines and hot, tight skin, and when his hips collide with Zayn’s it actually _hurts_ , but it’s so, so good, and Zayn wants more, wants to be ripped apart, wants Harry to bite his way inside him and spit out a chunk of his heart. 

‘When?’

‘With that guy. In the Barfly.’

‘What –?’

‘I wanted to fucking _die_. I thought I was gonna die.’

Harry gulps, rolls his hips so Zayn’s toes curl. He groans quietly, eyes closing, and an evil fucking smile twists onto his face. ‘No.’

Zayn feels his lungs constrict like they’ve been popped with a pin. ‘Huh?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about you.’ He reaches a hand and strokes at Zayn’s damp neck gently. ‘I don’t think about you.’

If Zayn wasn’t so close, he might shove Harry off. He tightens his grip on Harry’s dick, working him faster. ‘You prick.’

Harry laughs and a bit of spit falls out his mouth and lands on Zayn’s chest. ‘I was just thinking about him, what I felt like inside him –’

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and feels his heart scream at him. ‘Stop,’ he whines, face twisting up.

‘– he barely knew my name and it was all he could say to me, in that toilet, “ _yes, Harry_ ” –’

‘Stop,’ Zayn snaps desperately, resisting the urge to cover his ears, and Harry laughs again, his fingers against Zayn’s pulse as he presses a messy kiss to his mouth.

‘You love that, don’t you? What I do to you. That’s why you’re – ugh, _fuck_ – so jealous.’

Zayn makes a bruised whine of a sound and licks over Harry’s mouth messily. ‘Fuck off.’ 

‘You’re so easy.’

‘What?’

‘You’re meant to be smart,’ he whispers, biting Zayn’s mouth. He swallows, and Zayn hears something change in his voice when he repeats, ‘You’re meant to be smart, Zayn.’

‘What?’

‘I’m so fucking gone for you it’s embarrassing,’ Harry says, lips ghosting against Zayn’s. He sounds almost angry, and Zayn’s back arches when his blunt nails scratch against Zayn’s neck. ‘You know I am, Zayn. You’ve always known. Don’t ever ask me again if I think about you. You're all I think about. I love you.’

_I love you._

‘Fuck, I’m gonna come,’ Zayn wheezes, head tilting back against the pillow. Harry kisses Zayn’s shoulder, licks the sweat from his collarbone, and then presses his mouth to Zayn’s ear.

‘You think of me?’ Harry whispers. His breath is so hot, his mouth so wet, and Zayn feels himself shaking, his pulse thickening under the press of Harry’s fingers, even his eyelids trembling. And when Harry speaks, his voice is quivering too, ‘In this bed, with her? Do you think of me? I’d do so much more to you, Zayn. I’d be so much more for you.’

Zayn's whole body is trembling, suspended on the edge of something bright and multicoloured, something that makes even the blunt edges of his brain blur.

'Do you love me, Zayn? Do you love me too?'

And then Zayn’s coming, spots the colour of Harry pulsing behind his closed eyelids, green and pink and white, and if he gasps out _yes_ , he can’t hear it through the rush of blood in his ears.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn wakes up with a mouthful of Harry’s hair, a dry mouth and an ache along his hipbones that he knows will bloom into a purple constellation tomorrow, whole little universes left there by Harry. He lets himself lie still for a moment, his skinny body curved around Harry’s larger one, his face pressed into Harry’s hair, both of them smelling of sweat and sex and each other. One of his hands is looped around Harry’s waist and Harry’s holding it to his stomach with strong, tight fingers, snoring lightly into the pillow.

Zayn swallows, kisses Harry’s bare shoulder, and lets himself feel it for the first time in years, the love that he bottles and squashes and stifles and stamps on, locks away in straightjackets and airtight boxes and safes with endless locks and bolts and chains. He lets it spill right out of him, fill up the holes in his heart like paper mâché, slot in between all the cracks and scars he’s felt chip away at him for nearly ten years. It should feel scary, this sudden release, like a dam breaking, but it’s so cathartic it’s calming. He pulls back slightly to slip his hand across Harry’s broad shoulders, the moles and the freckles and the tense knots of muscle, and lets his fingers trace the dip of his spine, down to the slimmer flesh of his waist, the dimples at the base of his spine, the tiny raspberry birthmark on the curve of his hip, the scar just above his bum from falling off a skateboard when he was twelve.

Zayn slips out from under the covers and pads through the silent house to check on Amber. He doesn’t need to do this anymore because he’d hear her crying if anything was wrong, but it’s habit now and he always wakes once or twice a night to check she’s still there, still breathing. He readjusts her blanket and strokes her hair and smiles down at her, fast asleep, not a care in the world.

Downstairs, he gulps down a huge glass of water and looks outside at the state of the garden, unwanted paving slabs piled like modern art in the corner, brown soil raked and fertilised and ready for planting. Maybe Harry can do it tomorrow.

Tomorrow. 

It’s been a long time since Zayn thought of a tomorrow for him and Harry. The notional image of them together, of their Sunday morning lie-ins and their shared showers and their nights on the sofa watching shit TV, crumbled years ago, melted like grey sludge on a dirty pavement. But Zayn still wants it, has never _stopped_ wanting it, and now – now he can have it. 

For as long as he can remember he’s ignored how he feels, stands at the border of tomorrow and finds himself taking four steps back, scared of inching forward because of _what ifs_. What if it doesn’t work out? What if it makes things worse? What if it breaks me in two if it all goes wrong?

But Harry always jumps. Harry always closes his eyes and takes that step inside, because they’ll always be another step to take, another terrifying leap, and at least if he’s walking he’s moving forward. And Zayn’s going to do it. He’s going to be brave. He’s going to jump.

He bounds out into the hallway and finds himself chest to chest with Harry. They smack into each other, chests colliding, and Zayn yelps loudly in alarm, feet slipping on the wood. He makes to stumble back but Harry grabs at him, reaches for Zayn’s waist and hauls him closer, pressing his cheek against Zayn’s shoulder.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ he says in a mutter, nose pressed against Zayn’s cheek.

‘Where would I be?’ Zayn laughs, running a hand through Harry’s hair. ‘It’s like three in the morning.’

‘I don’t know,’ Harry mumbles. ‘I just thought you had.’

Zayn pushes Harry away from his shoulder and smiles gently at him, holds his face with both hands and kisses him. Harry’s always been so scared of being left alone, Zayn knows that, but he doesn’t need to worry anymore. Zayn would rather throw himself onto hot coals than ever leave Harry’s side again. He wouldn’t for a million pounds. He wouldn’t for anything in the world.

His back is against the wall as Harry’s hot tongue dips into his mouth, one of his hands braced against the wall by Zayn’s head. Everything’s very bright and sharp as Harry’s mouth leaves Zayn’s wetly, curving up when Zayn exhales an embarrassing sort of whimper, his teeth blunt against Zayn’s neck.

‘Want you again,’ he says, his breath hot and sweet and rough, like the sun. And Zayn wants to say _I know, I can feel it_ , because he can right there against his hipbone. He wants to say, _how do you get hard so quickly all the time_ and _such a slut for it_ and _can’t you control yourself for five minutes?_ , but instead he finds himself tilting his head back against the wall, grinning.

‘What do you want?’ he practically purrs, and it’s like on that walk back from the V&A they fell through the black and white squares and tumbled through some Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole back to the past, back to when they were kids and used to flirt and tease and fuck themselves into oblivion every day. There’s nothing sad or hurried or tentative about this anymore, and everything feels saccharine. He wants to lick at Harry’s skin until it dissolves under his tongue like candy floss, until there’s a crater he can crawl through and nip cavity holes into his sweet heart.

Harry’s eyes flash with delight. ‘All of you,’ he says, gripping Zayn’s hip with his free hand. He bites his way across Zayn’s cheek, the flat of his tongue dragging over Zayn’s neck before his teeth nip at his earlobe. ‘Everywhere. All at once. All over me.’ He grinds his hips and Zayn feels his heart flare. ‘Fucking drown me.’

And then Harry’s on his knees, the muscles in one arm pulsing as he wraps a hand around himself without hesitation, and his smiling mouth is wet and hot and on Zayn, and his smiling eyes are on him, too, branding amorphous welts into Zayn’s soul.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

Zayn is warm.

He’s warm as he and Harry end up back upstairs, in bed. He was warm in the shower he had with Harry, and he was warm as they ended up almost destroying the bathroom when they couldn’t take their wet hands off each other, and he was warm when Harry kissed the toothpaste out of his mouth, and he’s warm now. Hovering over him as they kiss, pulling back every now and then to smile at each other. Harry’s fingertips are light against Zayn’s cheekbones, stroking his skin, and when Zayn pulls away to kiss his jaw, Harry blinks slowly, heavily, green eyes so soft and brimming with the same thing that’s invading the whole of Zayn’s body, and he’s _warm_. 

‘I look for you, you know,’ Harry says, slow voice oozing heat that Zayn can feel everywhere, even in the small cracks between the bones in his fingers. ‘Everywhere. I look for you.’ 

Zayn just stares, and Harry’s mouth drifts into a smile. ‘You do?’

‘Always.’

‘And?’ Zayn mumbles, eyes searching Harry’s face quizzically, searching for some answers he’s not quite sure he can handle hearing.

Harry’s smile softens. ‘You’re there. Even in places I’ve never been before,’ Harry says with a sure, slow nod, cheek grazing the pillow, eyes on Zayn like he’ll never look away. ‘Even when I’m on my own.’

‘What do you look for?’

Harry’s fingers float towards Zayn’s lips. ‘Your mouth,’ he says, his own lips twisting thoughtfully. ‘Your hair. Your shoulders. The way you say things, you know.’ Zayn gulps, his heart pulsing like a car in a traffic jam, waiting and waiting and waiting. ‘Your tiny little arse.’

‘Hey,’ Zayn snaps, but he grins and Harry smiles too.

‘You’re everywhere I am,’ Harry says, but there’s a redness to his cheeks now, an embarrassed lilt as he trails off. He tucks his face into Zayn’s shoulder and presses a kiss over his collarbone. ‘You have been forever. You're everything. That’s a secret.’

It takes a moment for Zayn to recover from this information. There are a thousand huge purple bruises that seem to form over every inch of skin, throbbing, shoving huge ill-fitting keys at what has been the dreadfully locked passages of his heart, and he twists his hand through Harry’s hair and resists the urge to press his cheek to Zayn’s ribs so hard they melt into each other.

‘Okay, my secret,’ he whispers, pressing his face into Harry’s head. He’s so scared he’s sure Harry can feel it, but Harry just breathes steadily, and Zayn can feel his lips curve up, and it makes the frantic heat of his heart simmer. ‘I can’t find you anywhere. That’s why everything’s so bad when you’re not here with me.’

And Harry looks up and smiles and leans in and mouths ‘ _I’m here now_ ’ against Zayn’s lips, and Zayn – Zayn’s _warm._

And Zayn’s used to his heart blowing up and exploding and bursting like confetti from a canon in the centre of his chest, but right now, he smiles against Harry’s mouth, the two of bundled up in the duvet, and he just feels an overwhelming calm, a rush that fills up his fingertips and the spaces between his joints and the creases of his skin, whispers yes into the soft shell of his ear. And he’s warm.

 

 

  
+++

 

 

It’s dustily light and achingly cold and the headache of early morning is there behind Zayn’s eyes and they’re still kissing.

‘You wanna go again?’ Zayn asks quietly, shifting his hips against Harry’s, and Harry nods emphatically, grinning when Zayn laughs. ‘Look at you. Eager.’

‘You asked!’

He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s mouth. ‘How many more times before you’re satisfied, then?’

Harry’s gaze slides away as he thinks about it, chewing his lip, before looking back at him impishly, nose wrinkling. ‘I – I don’t think I could ever tire of it, to be honest.’

‘Wow,’ Zayn says, whistling like he’s impressed. ‘But we’re old now, lest you forget.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Harry says haughtily, pressing at a purple bruise forming by Zayn’s nipple. He earns a hiss for his efforts and smiles smugly. ‘Stamina is my middle name. I was _built_ for this.’

‘What? Getting fucked?’

Zayn laughs and Harry laughs too, pinching Zayn’s side. ‘Don’t say it like that.’

‘Sorry. Shagged?’

‘That’s worse.’

‘Sexed? Ravished?’

‘Cheers, _Heathcliff._ ’

They’re laughing again, pressing their faces together, noses bumping. Everything is so sweet and nice and _perfect_ , so happy and smooth and _calm_ after years of emotional holocaust. It makes Zayn’s body feel lighter, like all the invisible strings tying him to the earth have snapped.

‘I have a proposition,’ he says, face still pressed to Harry’s, peering at the smudges of him through his eyelashes, pink and green and gold.

‘Do tell.’

‘It’s been quite a long time since anyone fucked me, you know. If you want to.’

Harry chews on his bottom lip into his mouth and pretends to think about it, although Zayn can feel the contrary evidence leaking against his stomach. ‘Hmm. I guess so.’

Zayn mock slaps him, and even though it was the worst possible slap in the world he feels Harry’s cock jerk between them. Zayn’s eyes widen and he huffs out a laugh. ‘Oh Harry, that was embarrassing,’ he says in delight.

Harry laughs, a proper, mouth wide-open laugh, smacking a kiss on Zayn’s lips. ‘So was your whole _guy at the Barfly_ shit. Do you think I can even remember what he looks like?’

Zayn feels himself redden and he lets his gaze slide away from Harry’s for the first time. ‘Well. I can.’

‘Oh, _Zayn_ , you tortured soul.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Do you remember when you got jealous when I went out with Francesca? Before you and I had even kissed?’

‘No,’ Zayn lies haughtily.

‘I didn’t realise you were jealous until after. I thought you might fancy _her_ , because you always used to bring her up and you were like – surly.’

‘ _Surly?_ ’

‘Yeah, like, I remember once I got too drunk and you started going on about how Francesca should be there to look after me instead of you – “ _your girlfriend should be cleaning up your vom, Harry, not me._ ”’ Harry grins, and Zayn feels himself smiling back in spite of himself. ‘And then I got jealous because I thought you fancied her, and then I broke up with her because I realised I fancied you.’

‘Sounds like a soap opera.’

‘Was a bit. Little did we know…’

‘The big drama was to come.’

They smile at each other, a little self-consciously, and Zayn kisses him again slowly, sucking Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth. 

‘Can I do something?’ Harry asks when they pull apart, thumbs rubbing Zayn’s cheekbones, and Zayn smiles dopily at him.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Turn over.’ Zayn raises an eyebrow triumphantly, and Harry presses their lips together briefly, rolling his eyes. ‘Who’s eager now?’

Zayn rolls off Harry and obliges, cheek against the mattress as Harry rearranges him gently, tucking his knees under his torso. He feels horribly exposed and aware of his own breathing, so he covers his face with his arm and closes his eyes, trying not to make an embarrassing noise when Harry runs the flat of his palm up Zayn’s back and down again, over the curve of his bum, down the side of his thigh.

‘Zayn?’

‘Yeah?’

Harry pauses, and Zayn hears him swallow. ‘Before we do this, I just – I need to – speaking of girls and stuff, I just – I’ve been thinking about Zoë –’

Zayn can feel himself hardening just from the cool sweep of Harry’s hand against his back, and the mention of Zoë is an unwelcome reminder that he’s meant to feel guilty about this, that this – the most _right_ thing to happen to Zayn in years – is wrong. He shakes his head like a dog throwing off water.

‘Can we not talk about her right now?’ Zayn asks, almost hysterically.

He can almost hear Harry’s eyebrows pulling together as he says, ‘But I –’ 

‘We’ll talk about her in the morning, babe.’

‘It’s important,’ Harry says flatly. ‘It’s important, Zayn.’

‘I know, I know, tomorrow we will. Talk about it. Tomorrow we’ll talk about it.’

‘It’s simple though, isn’t it?’ Harry says, and he sounds strangely desperate. ‘If it’s what I think. It’s simple. We can just say what we think now.’

‘Harry, for _fuck’s_ sake,’ Zayn laughs, trying to find friction against the sheets and failing. Only Harry would get someone worked up, get them achingly hard and sweating, and then attempt to engage them in a heart to heart. ‘Don’t do this.’

‘But I … Zayn, I’m –’

‘Are you gonna fuck me or what?’

There’s another pause in which Harry doesn’t move, and Zayn thinks he might say no, or argue some more, or maybe even get up and leave. It’s suddenly very still, save for Zayn writhing around and panting impatiently, and his heart pulses with a sudden uneasiness. He nearly squawks at Harry to hurry up, but then he feels Harry’s fingers pulling him apart and suddenly the wet heat of his tongue is licking right over him. It knocks the air out of Zayn’s lungs, his whole body jolting with it, mouth falling open, but Harry doesn’t stop. He grips at Zayn’s ass with both hands, fingers pressing so hard he might leave marks, and swirls his tongue before pulling back and blowing a little stream of cool air against the wet skin. 

It makes Zayn choke over a noise he hasn’t made in years, biting the skin of his arm as Harry leans forward again, mouth open and wet and hot, licking Zayn apart. He presses a finger in under his tongue, inching it in slowly, and Zayn’s whimpering against the sheet, pressing his hips back and then, chasing friction, pushing them forward.

‘Shhh,’ Harry whispers, kissing Zayn’s hip. ‘Shhhh, Zayn.’

But it’s way too late for that because Zayn’s gone, flying, tumbling, fucking desperate for it, and he feels himself nearing the hard smack of the ground even though Harry’s barely got started. Harry curls his tongue and slips in another finger and Zayn’s gasping, whining out a noise that sounds nothing like him, one of his legs kicking back reflexively.

‘Fuck, Harry, come on –’ 

Harry shushes him again, and Zayn wants to smack him.

‘Please,’ he whines loudly. 

‘Fucking hell,’ Harry says. He pulls back, and Zayn hears himself whimpering, because he was so close to coming just like that, but then he feels Harry’s mouth at the back of his neck. ‘Zayn,’ Harry says, and his voice is fragile, shaking. ‘You know I can’t bear it if you leave me again. I mean it. I can’t.’

He’s barely listening, squirming against the sheets. ‘I know, I know.’

‘Tell me you won’t.’

‘ _Harry_ –’ 

‘Please, Zayn –’

‘For fuck’s sake, _shut up_.’

He feels the warmth of Harry’s breath against the back of his neck dissipate, but his body’s going mental against the sheets, squirming and thrashing about, and his brain seems to have floated off into another dimension, what’s left of it focussed solely on Harry’s tongue, his fingers, and there’s not any available capacity that can make him listen to, or care about, what Harry’s saying. 

‘Harry please, please. Touch me, please.’

When Harry speaks again, his voice is quiet. ‘Tell me you won’t. Zayn. Tell me.’

‘Ugh, you’re such a prick,’ Zayn half sobs, even his fucking _eyelids_ sweating. ‘Come on.’

He breathes for what must be the first time in decades when he hears Harry spit and then feels his fingers again, hard and insistent, not so concerned with being gentle and easing him open anymore. He still hasn’t used any lube and it hurts quite a bit, but Zayn’s clearly not in any state to worry about pain. His mouth is wide open against the pillowcase, fabric rough against his tongue, every inch of his skin drenched in heat so blinding his pores almost feel _cold_ , like he’s got a fever, and he’s writhing against the mattress, following Harry’s fingers desperately.

He’s making strange, weird noises, choking and gasping and growling and spitting out Harry’s name like he’s deranged, and throughout it all Harry stays silent, his free hand twisting the sweaty ends of Zayn’s hair through his fingers, stroking his back, grasping at his hip. Harry’s fingers still, pressing hard and unmoving to Zayn’s prostate, and Zayn’s legs kick out, biting down into the skin of his own arm so hard it blanches, whimpering loud enough that he has to silently pray the neighbours aren’t woken up. Harry presses harder still, then rubs, and Zayn chokes on nothing, nearly coming completely untouched. 

‘Zayn,’ Harry says, voice low and barely audible beneath Zayn’s whining. ‘Are you gonna talk to me now?’

‘Mmmgh,’ is all Zayn can say, because Harry withdraws his fingers and it makes the orange blobs behind Zayn’s closed eyelids burn white. 

‘Listen,’ Harry tries, but Zayn’s babbling things, begging probably, fingers scrabbling at the sheets and back twisting. ‘ _Listen_ ,’ Harry hisses, more forcefully, and Zayn’s never felt quite so vulnerable in his whole life, a quivering pile of nerve endings and red-hot skin, a twisted mass of incinerated body parts, and Harry’s sitting there beside him, holding himself together, completely still. ‘Zayn, listen –’

‘No, no, Harry, come on, please –’

‘Just tell me you won’t go,’ Harry pleads, and there’s a wet, terrified edge to his voice when he presses his face against Zayn’s shoulder. ‘Just please. Please. I’m – fuck, please.’

Zayn’s fist claws at the mattress, his eyes screwed shut. It takes a deep, almost painful breath in order to calm himself down, but he can feel Harry’s mouth trembling against his shoulder and he has to try, collecting himself enough to say, ‘Fine, yeah, yeah babe, I won’t.’

He’s not sure if that’s enough for Harry, or if he even spoke proper English, but Harry doesn’t push him any further. He presses one last kiss to Zayn’s neck, right over the fern, and after that Zayn drifts away, pulled apart by Harry and put back together piece by piece, inch by inch, kiss by kiss.

He turns Zayn over so he’s on his back and when they fuck it’s facing each other, Harry’s hair billowing over Zayn’s forehead. For once they’re almost silent, breathing and moaning and quietly swearing but they don’t speak, not this time. Harry touches every part of Zayn he can with quaking fingers, and they didn’t use a condom, and it’s like Zayn can feel Harry all over him, under his fingernails and in the folds of skin behind his knees and at his elbow and his eyelids. Every movement of his hips brings them closer and closer together, and for the first time ever Zayn feels like they’re actually close enough, like he’s completely wrapped up in Harry, like there’s no part of him that isn’t swamped and swallowed and swarming with him. He’s infested, _infected_ by Harry, can feel the disease spread through him with burning insistence, and it makes him so happy he actually laughs, eyes wet as he tilts his head back against the pillow. He comes like that, in the midst of this euphoria, and Harry just fucks him harder, only spurred on by Zayn letting go.

And then – finally – Harry shoves his fingers into Zayn’s mouth and his face starts to go slack and tight all at once, and Zayn says ‘ _are you coming_?’ and Harry can only nod, eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisted into a grimace. He presses his face against Zayn’s collarbone and actually _sobs_ , convulsing above Zayn, and Zayn just sucks at his fingers and holds Harry’s hair until he’s done. And then he mouths _I love you_ over every inch of Harry’s skin he can find, his shoulder, his neck, his temple, his jaw, the curve of his cheek, silent kisses that press hot truth over the familiar stretches of Harry he’s adored for so long. Harry just lies there on top of him, going soft inside him, shaking against his shoulder, and Zayn imagines he’s overwhelmed by it, or scared by it, or maybe just shocked, because Zayn’s loved Harry for so many years but he’s never felt the love drench him like this, soaking into every pore and rearranging his insides. _Don’t be scared_ , Zayn’s lips trace silently over his neck, _I love you. I love you. I love you._

 

 

  
+++

 

 

And when he wakes up, Harry’s gone.  



	4. wish you were here

  
****

**_I’m not allowed to talk about it_  
Monday, 1st November 2021 ******

  
****

A whole year passes and Harry’s still gone. 

He leaves for LA a few days after that night at Zayn’s, and he doesn’t come back. Not for Christmas, not for his birthday, not for a single day in a whole year. He swans about with new LA friends, goes for iced coffee and Greek yoghurt and posts stupid black and white photographs on his Instagram and does yoga on rooftop gardens and swears himself off refined sugar and alcohol. His skin is constantly browned, and he writes song after song in the studio with all of these famous people, gets backstage passes to Fleetwood Mac and the Rolling Stones and the Eagles. He does all of this and he never calls Zayn, never texts or drops him an email or likes one of his pictures or acknowledges Zayn exists. 

Zayn learns not to expect a call. He learns to stop stalking Harry’s Instagram or going through his Facebook pictures because it hurts way too much. He stops asking Louis what Harry’s been up to, he stops drafting long, angry text messages that he knows he’ll never send. He stops the passive aggressive Facebook statuses – because if anything, Zayn knows how to be petty – and he stops hopefully searching for Harry’s face at weddings of old school friends . He stops looking up flights to LA, he stops listening to Harry’s songs combing for some kind of hidden meaning, he stops Googling the names of Harry’s new shiny LA friends to see why he chose them over Zayn. 

He stops all of that, all the hours of self-torture, all the horrible months of wondering what he did wrong. He stops entirely, just like his and Harry’s relationship has stopped, after more than ten years of friendship. It means nothing, in the end. The longevity, the shared secrets and memories and pieces of each other they claim ownership of. They cease to exist, and all the paraphernalia of their friendship – photographs and presents and memories from another time – become artefacts, evidence of something that doesn’t exist anymore, a collection that an archaeologist just like Zayn might try and make sense of and not be able to draw any irrefutable conclusions. 

That’s all they are. Scraps of before, incongruous with what exists now, because now they lead distant, separate lives, strangers divided by the Atlantic Ocean. No future, no present, just all past, their relationship resigned to history, a murky memory that pales and fades and is left to cautionary tales of childhood and adolescence. All the shards of yesterday are cracked and jagged, and every time Zayn tries to pick them up they cut him deeper, tearing into the promise of tomorrow. 

  


  
+++

  
****

There’s butterfly cakes and savagely triangular sandwiches with cheese and jam and chicken and cucumber, violently coloured jelly courtesy of Sophia, party rings and hula hoops and cocktail sausages which half the party can’t eat but are put out anyway. There are balloons and banners and party poppers which scare the cat, and so many cards and presents Zayn can’t keep count, and all of Zayn’s family and friends squish into the living room in the house in Wanstead and beam at him as he helps Amber open them, laughing when she chooses to carefully pull at the wrapping paper with cautious fingers rather than tear at it greedily like any other kid would do. 

Somehow Amber is two today, a horrifying truth that Zayn can’t accept at all. She can speak now, not fluently, but she can say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘mine’ and ‘Rocket’. She strings together loose sentences which Zayn marvels at constantly, like she’s learned to speak Russian overnight, and runs around the house and paints pictures at nursery that she proudly presents to Zayn with a huge smile, clapping her hands when he pins every last one of them to the overcrowded fridge. 

She’s growing up so fast, and Zayn can’t help but feel as though he’s missing things. He blinks one day and she’s having her first hair cut, and he blinks again and she can say another ten new words with beaming confidence, and then he blinks once more and she’s grown out of her shoes _again_ , and it’s bewildering. 

It’s worse because he’s due to move out after Christmas. He’s signed off all the paperwork for his new place, a maisonette in Walthamstow which is only half an hour on the bus but still feels miles and miles and miles away. The custody agreement states that Zayn gets afternoons, alternating weekends, and also guardianship of the cat. Time with his daughter has been culled to twenty afternoons and four nights a month.

It feels terribly, catastrophically unfair, but he knows that’s nobody’s fault. Zoë has been kinder and more understanding towards Zayn in the past year than she was for the entirety of their relationship, and united by the knowledge that they have jointly experienced Zayn at his absolute worst, at rock fucking bottom, they’ve come out the other side maybe almost friends. Certainly better friends than they ever have been, anyway.

Now, Zoë stands in the corner next to her father, her new boyfriend Max on her other side – a nice enough guy, although not nearly intelligent or interesting enough for her, Zayn thinks privately – and grins as Zayn presents Amber with the newly unwrapped cardigan. Amber obediently takes it and smiles like the most perfect child she is, an adoring ‘aww’ streaming from the crowd of fans, and Zayn beams up at them in a similar kind of awe.

Everyone’s here. Louis and El and their son Chris; Zayn’s favourite colleague Caroline and her daughter; Liam and Sophia who are now officially Trying (a phrase which conjures up unwanted images of Sophia shrieking she’s fertile at Liam and the pair of them escaping from public places in a hurry); Niall and Laura and their dog, who has been banished into the garden after he nearly upended Doniya’s son Kamran. His other sisters are here, too; Waliyha, now twenty-bloody-three, is an apprentice make-up artist in London, and Safaa studies nursing at City University. His parents have found themselves in a predicament where all four of their children have managed to relocate to London without them, so they’ve come to stay with Doniya for a long weekend. Zayn’s mum has a permanent anxious crease at the corner of her mouth, like she might burst into tears at any moment. 

The room is full with everyone Zayn loves, except one, a man hundreds of miles way, probably basking in the glow of a scented candle, probably not thinking about him at all.

  
+++

  
****

It’s been a year of tears.

Zoë started it off when she arrived home from the wedding in Venice, sitting Zayn down and holding his face in her hands and saying over and over again _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but we don’t love each other, do we? We don’t love each other, do we?._ Zayn hugged her until she stopped crying, and then they made chocolate spread sandwiches and cracked open a bottle of wine and lay down in the garden, smoking and drinking and eating until they found the heart to joke about it. 

Then more tears, when Amber was finally teething and the realisation that Harry was not coming back – and that Zayn couldn’t stay here with Zoë much longer – settled under Zayn’s skin like an unwanted itch he couldn’t shake. The natural next step was for Zayn to move out, but he couldn’t afford anywhere near enough to be able to pick Amber up from nursery, and Zoë couldn’t take any more time off work. Eventually they decided Zayn would relocate to the sofa, a welcome change because he felt like he was being electrocuted every time he climbed into bed and remembered Harry in there beside him, the way Harry looked above him, curls clinging to his face, smile pulling at his lips. 

But he was okay. He’d be okay.

And then one evening in the new year, Zayn got a bit too drunk with Niall and Liam on a night out in London and decided he really wanted a blow-job, because why the fuck not? He’s still young and attractive and _lots_ of people still want his dick. There’s a girl at work who definitely does, who smiles at him and leans over his desk during her break and once suggested they go for a drink, but her hair fell right over the picture of Harry he has on his pinboard and Zayn found himself saying no. People on the tube and mothers at Amber’s nursery and waiters in restaurants want Zayn’s dick, so _why the fuck not?_. Just because Harry doesn’t want it doesn’t mean other people don’t. 

So he shook off Liam and Niall and stumbled about in Soho until he found someone who would accept money to suck his dick, except he didn’t actually have enough money, and he seemed to have lost his keys and also his phone, and then he sat on the floor and put his head in his hands and laughed and laughed and laughed until he wasn’t laughing anymore, he was actually crying, and the next time he opened his eyes he was home and Zoë was sitting over him with a cup of tea, staring down at him worriedly.

He had a shower and she made him cheese on toast and then he told her everything. Months worth of aborted tears and worries and sadness spewed out of him like vomit, and although it was wildly awkward for obvious reasons, she listened. She nodded and tutted and scowled in all the right places, and stroked Zayn’s hair when it was appropriate, and even wiped at his sopping face with her sleeve. She pronounced Harry a ‘ _first class prat_ ’ and didn’t seem that angry that he and Harry fucked in October, and then she kissed him on the forehead and said, ‘ _we’ll make it better for you, Zayn.’_

She tried. She tries. 

She gets Zayn a new phone and makes sure she doesn’t put Harry’s number in it, which is stupid because Zayn knows it off by heart but it helps, anyway, the evidence of him erased off there. She stealthily removes all of the obvious, visible traces of Harry from around the house, and she calls in someone to do the garden so Zayn doesn’t have to stare at the half-finished mess of it every morning when he wakes up and remember Harry there, shirtless, smiling at Zayn through the window. She ropes in Eleanor and Louis to help set Zayn up on dates, none of which go particularly well, and in doing so accidentally meets Max, who lives with one of the girls Zayn met up with for an uninspiring couple of weeks.

And those are the worst tears. The ones he sheds on his own, curled up on the sofa with the lights off, when the loneliness creeps in on him in the darkness, rising like monsters under the bed to carve a hole under Zayn’s ribs and tiptoe in to set up camp in his chest. The worst part is he’s not just crying because of the betrayal, the hurt Harry’s caused. He’s crying because of the loss, the bruise Harry left behind that Zayn can’t stop pressing, because after all this, he still misses him. After all this, he’d do anything to have Harry back. That’s the worst part.

  


  
+++

  
****

He’s in the kitchen a little while later, alone and scoffing down the last of the sandwiches because he doesn’t want any to go to waste, when he hears it.

Louis’ voice has always been on the wrong side of loud, a piercing, high-pitched bellow that often had teachers at school wincing and reiterating _‘Inside voice, please, Tomlinson.’_ Zayn can hear it now, as he hides in his own kitchen away from everyone, eating sandwiches because he’s spent the whole of the last year feeling sad and abandoned and that doesn’t disappear in a hurry, not even when the living room he won’t be able to call his in two months time is occupied by everyone he loves in the world.

So he’s stowed away, comfort eating children’s party food and pouting at the floor, when he hears Louis.

‘Hello mate! Yeah, all good. She’s here, hold on.’ And then, as Zayn unknowingly stuffs a whole sandwich in his mouth, swiping the back of his palm across his crust-covered lips, ‘Amber! Guess who’s on the phone for you, my love!’

Some grown adults gasp and say ‘ _who?’_ for added theatricality, and Zayn briefly wonders when they all turned into these people, talking monkeys with mortgages and contents insurance and spare baby wipes never further than a metre from their person at all times. 

‘It’s Uncle Harry, isn’t it!’ Louis says delightedly, and everyone squeals jubilantly, and somebody even claps, and Zayn chokes on his sandwich and clutches at the counter and for a brief moment, feels like he’s having a hallucination, or a stroke. 

‘Hawwy!’ Amber squawks. Zayn hears a collective murmur from the crowd; ‘ _ooh, I wonder how Harry’s doing!’_ and ‘ _isn’t it lovely, he’s in LA, all that sunshine!_ ’ and ‘ _when was the last time he was here_?’ 

He listens and listens and he feels himself disintegrating, his heart hurting, not aching or breaking but _hurting,_ an old wound reminding Zayn that it’s still there, unhealed, and he can’t listen anymore. He trips from the kitchen and heads up the stairs to Zoë’s bedroom, sitting heavily on the end of the bed with his head in his hands. His throat is suddenly clogged and stinging, and there’s a weighty press of tears against the backs of his eyes that’s more embarrassing than anything else.

He’s tried so hard. For years and years and years he’s tried everything to get over this. He’s tried being friends with Harry, tried sleeping around, tried ignoring him, tried being in a proper, adult relationship with another person, a person who is great and beautiful and was completely underappreciated by him. He’s done everything and it’s not enough, and this year has hurt the most because even when they didn’t speak properly for almost two years after Barcelona they still saw each other, Christmases at their parents’ houses in Bradford and weddings and parties and birthdays. But now he’s been cut off entirely, a clean break, cold turkey, and it stings right down to his bone marrow because Zayn never throws himself into anything and he threw himself into Harry that night. He gave him everything, decided _finally_ to jump, and it’s like Harry drained all the water from the swimming pool just as Zayn tossed himself off the diving board. 

And now Harry’s having the time of his life in LA, probably getting fucked by big hairless Californians regularly, making more money and friends and memories than Zayn could ever dream of, and … he’s here. A single father, sleeping on the sofa in his ex-girlfriend’s house, crying upstairs alone on his daughter’s birthday.

He’s almost twenty-nine years old, and here he is, sobbing over a boy who doesn’t love him back. He thinks of his father, sitting downstairs in the armchair, smiling happily at his children and grandchildren, so strong and kind and resilient, and it makes him cry harder, clawing at his short hair, his shoulders slumping forwards. 

He can’t do anything right. He doesn’t know who he is or what he’s supposed to do with himself anymore. He doesn’t know how he’s ended up here or where he’s meant to be going or how he’s meant to get there. He doesn’t know how to get over Harry or who he can be without him or whether the rest of his life can be enough if Harry’s not in it. All he’s ever done is try to feel something more than that crippling, blinding happiness he felt when he was eighteen, wrapped up in Harry all summer, and all he’s done is seen snatches of it, blurred outlines behind the fogged up window of a bus. And he’s swiped his hands over the glass over and over again, scraping away the condensation, tried so desperately hard, but by the time he’s achieved any sort of clarity, the bus has pulled away, dragging him off in a direction he isn’t sure he ever asked for. 

He’s just tried to be happy. He’s just tried to make his family proud.

All he ever wanted was to make them proud.

‘Zayn?’

He wipes roughly at his face and looks up, sniffing loudly. His mum is standing at the threshold, her face pinched with worry, one hand tentatively on the doorframe like she’s holding herself back.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Zayn says, his voice choked and strange, and he dips his head, embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I’m just… having a moment.’

‘Can I come in?’ she asks softly, and Zayn nods at his lap, sniffing again.

He feels the bed bow as she sits down next to him, and then she’s got a hand on his knee. Her thumb is slow and calm against the scuffed denim of Zayn’s jeans, and before he knows it his wet face is against her shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he tries not to sob.

‘Oh, darling, what’s the matter?’

He sniffs. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re _not/ _fine,’ she says, and her voice is still gentle but it’s firmer now. ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’__

__He remembers almost a decade ago, Harry’s eighteenth birthday, being so sad about uni, sad about leaving Harry, scared that he was losing himself, and insisting to his mother he was fine. The memory jolts him, makes his breath catch in his throat, and then the truth is leaking out of him, in the way his bottom lip wobbles and his eyes swim, shoulders heaving again. ‘It’s Harry,’ he says. ‘I miss Harry so much.’_ _

__‘Oh, I know you do, my love.’ She smooths a hand across his shoulders. ‘I know you do.’_ _

__‘He just f-fucked off and left me. He doesn’t call or text and he’s m-meant to be my – my best friend.’_ _

__‘I know. I know it’s hard.’_ _

__‘And I … I just…’ He takes a deep, gulping breath. ‘I feel like I should be angry or something, and I am but I – I just miss him so much. I miss him so much.’_ _

__‘I know.’_ _

__Zayn shakes his head. ‘So much, Mum. You don’t understand.’_ _

__‘I do,’ she says quietly._ _

__‘No,’ Zayn insists, voice wavering, and then it’s easy, the way it spills from him. It’s a secret he’s kept from her for ten years, but it doesn’t feel frightening when it finally climbs up the ladder of his ribs and rests on the border of his tongue. It feels like he’s been waiting to say it for a long, long time. ‘Mum, you really don’t understand.’_ _

__Gently, his mum pushes him away from his shoulder and rubs her thumb across his wet face. ‘I do,’ she says again, looking him straight in the eyes, smiling encouragingly. ‘I know, Zayn.’_ _

__Zayn stares at her, unblinking._ _

__‘What?’_ _

__‘I know about you and Harry.’_ _

__For a brief, excruciating moment, the image of Zayn on this very bed with Harry’s face between his legs pops into his mind, Zayn squirming and whining in the sheets, begging for it. His face burns red. ‘Huh?’_ _

__She gives a slow nod, and Zayn stares back at her uncomprehendingly._ _

__‘How?’_ _

__‘You’re my baby.’ She smiles again. ‘Mothers know these things.’_ _

__Zayn just blinks at her, his mouth hanging open wordlessly._ _

__‘You think I didn’t know when you came back from uni just for Harry’s birthday? You didn’t come back for _my_ birthday, Zayn. Or any of your sisters’.’ She pokes Zayn teasingly. ‘Or when you turned up to Gemma Styles’ wedding looking like you’d just rolled out of a bin. Or all the times you went on and on about Harry, all these years, _Harry’s got a new boyfriend, Harry’s writing songs for the radio, Harry’s gonna be Amber’s godfather.’__ _

__Zayn shakes his head at her, mortified. ‘Hang on,’ he says, lifting up a silencing finger and screwing his eyes shut. ‘You’ve known basically forever?’_ _

__‘I’ve had my suspicions, yeah.’_ _

__‘And you’re not … upset or anything?’_ _

__She clucks at him and runs a hand through his hair. ‘You’re so daft, sweetheart. All anyone’s ever wanted is for you to be happy. Honestly. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’_ _

__Zayn’s chin wobbles threateningly. He gulps down a lump the size of a fist in his throat and looks somewhere over her shoulder, trying to stay calm as he asks, ‘And Dad? He’s not…’ He chokes over the word. ‘Disappointed?’_ _

__‘He thinks the sun rises and sets over the four of you and nothing can ever change that.’ She strokes her thumb over Zayn’s eyebrow. ‘You have no idea how many times he nearly drove to Cambridge to get you. All the time, he was saying, “ _We need to get him, Trish, he’s so sad_ ”.’ Zayn’s breath catches, betraying him. ‘He was so worried about you, darling. He never wanted you to be unhappy for the sake of anyone else. That’s all that matters at the end of the day.’_ _

__Zayn doesn’t trust his voice for a moment, so he sits there and pinches his leg through his jeans. ‘So you’ve known that I’m… that I like boys, all this time,’ Zayn manages to say eventually, his voice shaking with relief and exasperation, ‘and you never thought to bloody _mention_ it?’_ _

__‘Well,’ she says, stifling a grin at the look of anguish on his face. ‘I didn’t want to force you to talk about it if you didn’t want to!’_ _

__‘Ugh, Mum!’ He puts his head in his hands and groans loudly. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve worried about this for.’_ _

__‘You worry too much,’ she says helpfully, pointing out the fucking obvious. He gives her a scathing look and she laughs and kisses his temple, and he smiles back, looping their fingers together and squeezing her tight._ _

__For one short, honeyed moment, everything is gold and sweet and perfect. And then…_ _

__‘Doesn’t matter now anyway,’ Zayn remembers, his mouth drooping at the corners. ‘He doesn’t want me.’_ _

__‘What makes you think that?’_ _

__Zayn barks out a laugh. ‘He left. We had this – this thing before. Just before he left, I thought we might actually have a chance. He stayed here and we, uh, we kissed –’_ _

__‘Right,’ Trisha says sarcastically, eyebrows raised, and Zayn feels himself flush scarlet._ _

__‘Yeah, well. And then he left and he – he didn’t even say goodbye. He’s got –’ He flaps a hand, eyes stinging again ‘– this whole new sparkly life in LA and he likes it better than me.’_ _

__‘I don’t think that’s true,’ his mum says carefully. ‘I wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that, Zayn. You think the worst of him.’_ _

__Silence befalls them. Zayn takes her in, her guilty expression, the way she’s suddenly unable to meet his eye, and he glares at her. ‘What do you know?’ he asks icily._ _

__She steels herself. ‘Now listen, Zayn, don’t overreact, all right?’_ _

__‘What is it, Mum?’_ _

__‘I’ve been… speaking to Harry. On the phone.’_ _

__He stares at her. ‘What?’_ _

__‘Not very often. He wants to know about Amber. And you. He always asks after you.’_ _

__Zayn closes his eyes. The room suddenly feels tiny, his hand trapped by his mum’s, and he wriggles it out of her grip._ _

__‘Mostly he’s been speaking to Zoë,’ his mum goes on, voice slow and soothing. ‘He Skypes her and Amber. He’s not… I don’t know how well he’s dealing with –’_ _

__‘What the _fuck_?’ Zayn croaks. His mouth feels all wrong, his tongue too big, his saliva dry and thick, the back of his throat restricting like he’s being strangled. _ _

__‘He loves her, Zayn, he wants to keep up with her –’_ _

__‘If he wanted to keep with her, he should be fucking _here_!’ Zayn snaps loudly, standing up. The room is getting smaller and smaller, the walls pressing in on each other like at a haunted house. ‘If he wanted to keep up with her he shouldn’t have left!’_ _

__‘I know that –’_ _

__‘He’s gone behind my back to speak to my mum and my ex-girlfriend and my fucking _daughter_ and he can’t spare a single moment even texting me?’ He claws at his hair so hard tears well in his eyes. Hot, familiar anger boils up inside him, an anger only Harry is capable of igniting. ‘He doesn’t give a _shit_ about me, after everything. He doesn’t give a shit.’_ _

__The realisation knocks the breath out of him._ _

__Harry doesn’t care._ _

__He stopped caring._ _

__He’s over it._ _

__‘Zayn –’_ _

__‘Just leave me for a bit.’ He looks down at her, pleading with her. ‘Please, just leave me alone for a bit.’_ _

__She blinks at him. ‘Zayn.’_ _

__‘Please. Just leave me.’_ _

__She stares worriedly at him for a moment, perhaps knowing he’s on the verge of a colossal breakdown, but he manages to keep himself together, staring pointedly at the floor until she leaves and quietly shuts the door behind her._ _

__And then he’s alone._ _

____

  
+++

  
****

Two days before Zayn went to Cambridge, Martha Brighton in Zayn's year had a going away party. Zayn asked for Harry to come too but she said no, so Zayn went alone and spent the evening drinking too much apple vodka and trying to be as excited as everyone else. It wasn't that he wasn't excited, not entirely, it was just that more than anything else he was fucking terrified and he didn't know who he could tell.

He couldn't tell his parents because they were so over the moon they were practically grazing Mars. They'd shuttled Zayn to IKEA two days earlier and got hysterical about new bed sheets, his dad maybe even tearing up when Zayn lifted a spatula and doubtfully asked, 'will I need this?'. 

He couldn't tell Louis because he was dead excited and had already added his entire new flat on Facebook and memorised their star signs. 

And he couldn't tell Harry, because Harry was probably sadder about Zayn leaving than he was, and one of them had to put on a brave face. 

So he drank and drank and chattered with forced delight about Cambridge, smiling gracefully when he was told over and over how clever and brilliant he was. He smiled and drank and smiled and drank and tried to remember where everyone was going. _Martha Hallam, Louis Manchester, Anwar Brooks, Leila Hull, Danny Loughborough, Mel Manchester, Hannah Manchester, Kiran Manchester ..._

And then it was 2 and the sky had burned black and he was stumbling back to Harry's, through the gate and into the garden like always. He expected the light to be on in Harry's bedroom but instead, Harry was outside, sitting on his striped hammock with a spliff between his lips, hands clasped over his chest. 

'Hey,' Zayn said, and he managed to slur it, just that. He was suddenly aware of just how drunk he was and that he couldn't stand still without stumbling and he probably left his jacket and phone and keys at Martha’s, but there wasn't time to think about that now. 

Because Harry.

Harry.

Harry.

Harry.

He felt him so strongly, his name laced with the rhythm of his heart.

'Hey,' Harry said back. His eyes were red and scratchy when Zayn got close enough, and he didn't reach out to Zayn so Zayn sat beside him, shivering as their knees touched, and neither of them said anything. 

Zayn stared at him. He was wearing a hoodie, the length of the string on either side of the hood uneven, and his eyes looked weird and empty. Harry offered Zayn a puff of the spliff but he shook his head and Harry smiled slowly, ruby lips pulling over his teeth in the saddest rendition of a smile Zayn had seen in a long time. Harry exhaled a long, thick stream of smoke that felt like it'd never end, and Zayn watched it evaporate with a feeling deep in his gut that felt a lot like panic. 

'How was the party?'

'Okay.'

'How's Martha?'

'Okay.'

'Where's she going?'

'Sheffield Hallam.'

_Martha Hallam, Louis Manchester, Anwar Brooks, Leila Hull, Danny Loughborough, Mel Manchester, Hannah Manchester, Kiran Manchester ..._

'Cool. Gem loves it there.'

'That's what I said.'

Harry smiled again loosely and inspected his spliff. Zayn wanted desperately to tell him that it was nearly out, that there wasn't any point, but Harry still tried it anyway and when he was unsuccessful, tossed it into the bush. 

'Out,' he said. 

'Yeah.' 

Harry hauled himself up out of the hammock and started toeing at the football lying still on the grass. 

'What did you do this evening?'

Harry shrugged. 'Smoked,' he said, kicking the ball into the fence. It hit it with a _whack!_ and rolled sadly back to him. 

'Where's Gem?'

'Her boyfriend's.'

'Where's your mum?'

'Her boyfriend's.'

Zayn felt queasy so he stood up. 'Harry -'

'I finished that book you like,' Harry said, cutting over the top of him. 'And I didn’t like it. I _hated_ it, actually –'

Zayn's head started spinning. 'Harry –'

'– they’re in love for so long, and they don’t know it, he just –' the ball hit the fence again '– fucks around and gets rich and famous and _leaves_ her. And she gets with that fucker Ian! Of all fucking people –'

The ball smacked into the fence. 'Harry –'

'– and Dexter knows, right? He must do. She loved him so much. I could feel it and I wasn’t there. And then she fucking _dies?_ She DIES? What the _FUCK_? I’m going to fucking write a letter to the bastard who wrote that. I’m gonna fucking run _him_ over. What a prick. She DIES. What a prick.'

Zayn felt like he might throw up. 'Harry. Stop.'

‘She fucking dies. I hate it. I _hate_ it.' He kicked the ball harder and the fence shook. 'I ordered like four Domino’s pizzas by the way, I only ate two. One has ham on so don't eat that. I might have eaten it already.’ He clawed a hand through his hair and glanced at Zayn, eyes weirdly glassy, as though he was on the verge of tears. ‘Do you think they call Hawaiian pizzas that because they taste like the beach?'

Zayn walked towards the house unsteadily and held out his hand. He could hear his heart in his ears and the fence was still shaking. 'Come here.'

'You know what I mean? The beach would taste salty, yeah?'

'No,' Zayn said, motioning with his hand. 'Come here.'

'Cos of the sea.' He kicked the ball so hard the fence made a cracking sound. 'Cos of the fucking salty as fuck sea.'

He said that far too loudly and a bedroom light next door came on. 

'Come here _now_ , H.'

'Maybe Cambridge will broaden your dull fucking mind,' Harry spat bitterly, and Zayn blinked at him, taken aback. He'd never heard Harry be so blindingly negative about anything, except football scores or _Long Road Out of Eden_ or his dad, and it was the first time he'd been rude about Cambridge. Zayn's arm fell limply to his side, heart seizing. 'Salty like the fucking sea. Fucking idiot.'

He pulled a leg back and kicked the ball as hard as he could, gasping with the force of it. It flew up, forward, whirling threw the air, and then it tore through the battered fence like a canon. In the distance a dog started barking, and more lights came on, and Zayn reached for Harry's hand and tugged him into the dark house. 

And suddenly they were kissing, so fucking hard, pulling at each other's hair like they were properly trying to tear it out, ripping off clothes and biting roughly at skin. Zayn was still shaking as he let himself get pushed to the kitchen floor, dragging his nails down Harry's neck, nearly crying out when Harry bit his lip so hard he drew blood. He pulled back, and Zayn opened his eyes to find Harry's face centimetres away, eyes bloodshot and blown wide, heavy lidded. He blinked and Zayn saw the whole universe on the backs of his eyelids and it made him want to cry, want to run into the street and scream that Harry was his and the summer was theirs and it was all falling apart beneath his fingertips.

‘Please don’t leave me,' Harry whispered, and Zayn could hear his heart breaking in his voice as it cracked. 

'I don't want to.'

'But you still are.'

'Would you let me stay?' Zayn said. 'If I said I wasn't going anymore? For you?'

Harry swallowed and looked at Zayn's mouth, pressing his thumb to his lower lip. 

_Say yes._

'No,' he mumbled. 'I could never.'

It took Zayn’s breath away, the way Harry gazed him. It was warm and scorching and sad, a hurricane billowing in the stormy green that he’d never be able to forget.

‘I want the whole world for you,’ Harry went on, his voice wobbling as his thumb traced the curve of Zayn’s lip. ‘You’re so brilliant, it’s not fair if only I get to see it. It’s selfish to keep it just for me to see.’

‘You see me, though,’ Zayn breathed, pressing his lips to Harry’s palm and staring back at him reverently, never blinking, never looking away. ‘You see parts of me no one else does. Do you know that? You _know_ me. That’s all for you.’ He took a deep, gulping breath. ‘Tell me to stay. Tell me, and I’ll stay.’

The silence was so loud, gouging chunks from them, and Harry didn’t say a word. They stared at each other, unblinking, sharing the air, and maybe they knew what was to come. And there was nothing else to cling onto, so they kissed even harder than before, clawing at each other like there was something left to find, like there was anything they didn't know, anything left. The kitchen tile was cold against Zayn's back and Harry's hips were jerking against his, rough and insatiable, fabric on fabric, scorching solid heat, snatches of wetness that made Zayn feel like he'd fallen out of a tree. 

'I want you to think about me,' Harry gasped against Zayn's tongue, nails digging into Zayn's cheek. It made Zayn gasp, his heart stuttering. 

'I will babe,' he managed to breathe. 'I will, I will.'

Harry curled his tongue wetly against Zayn's mouth. ‘Please –'

‘I will.’

'You’re the whole world,' Harry said desperately, lips catching against Zayn's open, breathless mouth, holding onto him like how he clings to his pillows in his sleep, like he never wanted to let go. 'Look how good we are. We’re the whole world.' 

The next morning Zayn left before Harry woke up, too frightened to go through the farce of who they were before, kissing each other awake under the duvet, making breakfast together in the kitchen, singing along to the radio and dancing with their socks slipping over the tiles. He left before he could do more damage to their hearts than he’d managed already, and the next time he saw Harry it was the day he left for Cambridge. 

That was the first time Zayn left him, and the last time that Harry’s heart didn’t break to find an empty space in the bed next to him where Zayn should have been.

  
+++

  
****

Everything in the bedroom reminds him of Harry.

Everything.

Harry’s left traces of himself in everything Zayn knows.

That’s why his absence hurts so much. Because Harry smothers people, overwhelms them, drowns them in him and then when he walks away it's like an addict on cold turkey. Harry is not a person you can take a little from. It's all or nothing, and having nothing after having it all is the closest Zayn thinks he'll ever feel to falling off a high ledge and having the earth ripped from under his feet.

Zayn crosses over to the bookshelf and yanks out his school yearbook. He’s looked through it so many times in the past year that he knows exactly where it is without looking for it, and he sits back on the bed with it, his fingers shaking as he leafs through it. The corners are tattered now and there’s a ring of a tea-stain on the cover, but that’s not what Zayn’s interested in. It’s the pages in the middle about _Grease_ , the light-hearted reviews from the teachers, the black-and-white rehearsal pictures, the photos of Zayn’s set all lit up, audience members seated, waiting for Louis and the others to burst onstage.

And then there’s the part Zayn always comes back to, the crew and orchestra photograph. Harry and Zayn are squashed together in the corner, slightly distant from everyone else. Zayn’s arm is slung around his shoulder, their school ties loose around their necks, Harry’s guitar hanging neglected at his waist. Harry still had spots then, just a few dotted over his forehead, and Zayn hadn’t yet started shaving. Harry’s staring at the camera, mouth hanging open with laughter like Zayn had just told him a joke, but Zayn’s looking at Harry, like always, his tongue pressed against his teeth. 

He can remember that day so clearly. Just a few hours after this photo was taken, on the walk home, Harry had blinked up at Zayn beneath his stupid hair and smiled and said, _‘if I tell you a secret, will you tell me one back? Secret for secret? _’, and Zayn had just nodded dumbly, helplessly and wholly in awe, his heart catapulting out of the atmosphere and into a new galaxy when Harry had said ‘ _I’m so glad I met you. That’s a secret.’ _____

____Just a few days after this photo was taken, Harry started going out with Francesca._ _ _ _

____A few weeks later, he lost his virginity to her and told Zayn, secret for secret, in bed._ _ _ _

____And a few months after that, he and Zayn kissed, and Zayn fell in love with him, and Harry ruined his life._ _ _ _

____And suddenly his phone is pressed to his ear, shrill as it reaches out over the Atlantic, signal bouncing up into space and back again. Zayn’s foot is bouncing against the floor with adrenaline, his hands still shaking, eyes wet and determined as they stare unblinkingly at the wall._ _ _ _

____‘Hello?’ he hears Harry say, and for a moment, his bruised heart soars. Zayn’s eyes slip shut, his entire body stilling, poised like he’s forgotten how to move, like a tiger about to attack and a deer in headlights and a fucking marble statue in a museum, carved out of stone, lifeless and immobile. He forgets how to breathe, in that moment. He doesn’t know how to breathe._ _ _ _

____Then he hears a muffled voice, distant and away from the receiver, and Harry laughs. Zayn momentarily regrets hiding his caller ID, because he doesn’t want to hear him laugh and have fun with someone else. He’s not sure he can actually take it, and he nearly hangs up._ _ _ _

____‘Helloooooo?’ Harry says again, exaggerated, voice light and bouncy. Zayn imagines him making a face – _who is this weirdo at the end of the phone_ – and an invisible fist punches him repeatedly in the gut. _ _ _ _

____He sounds so _happy_. He sounds light and bright and everything Harry should be, a smile permanently fixed to his face like an Open for business! sign, the dimple in his cheek a valley full of promise and hope and happiness. He’s happy without Zayn. He’s _happy_._ _ _ _

____Everything Zayn might have said, every sentence stuffed with anger and hurt, every scathing insult, dissolves like sherbet on his tongue. What’s the point, now?_ _ _ _

____Harry’s happy._ _ _ _

____Everything in the world is right, and good, and as it should be._ _ _ _

____Zayn hangs up the phone._ _ _ _

______ _ _

  
+++

  
****

It takes ten minutes of pacing and clawing at his face and almost tearing holes in the duvet cover before Zayn calls back.

‘Is this a cold call?’ Harry says, still in his happy sing-song voice. Zayn can hear glasses chinking and laughter and sunshine in the background. Somebody says something and Harry laughs too, that deep squawk that makes a sorbet of Zayn’s pulse. He swallows, feels his heart sag dangerously. What he wouldn’t give to know what made him laugh. What he wouldn’t give to be there, to see it. Even from a distance. Even through a telescope, from Mars. ‘Look, I’m at lunch,’ Harry goes on, exasperated. ‘If this is a call centre or something, could you just strike me off the books because I –’ 

‘It’s Zayn,’ he says quietly. 

It’s met with silence. Zayn hears nothing, not even a single breath from Harry, for what feels like a whole millennium, and – 

_Fuck._

Why did he even ring? What can he possibly say?

The whole world seems to collapse against his lungs.

His thumb is poised to hang up when he hears Harry mumbling ‘ _excuse me a minute_ ’ to his faceless friend, and then there’s the sound of Harry walking somewhere, his feet delicately audible against foreign LA ground.

Half an hour ago, Zayn wanted to kill him. He wanted LA to erupt in a violent earthquake and swallow Harry whole, he wanted Harry to be squashed and stamped and obliterated into oblivion along with all of his stupid friends and clothes and the new life he’s made without Zayn, the entirety of it just crumbling into ash that Zayn can blow away and never have to deal with again. But that disappeared as quickly as it came, and now, he wants Harry here. 

He wants Harry _here._

‘Hi,’ Harry says eventually. His voice is tight, polite, and it makes Zayn’s face crumple. ‘How are you?’

‘You’ve been speaking to my mum,’ Zayn says instead of answering, and he’s horrified that he can hear the tears in his voice, but he supposes that’s answer enough. ‘You’ve been speaking to my mum and Zoë.’

Harry swallows loudly. ‘Yes,’ is all he says.

Zayn puts a hand to his face, as though holding the cracked surface of himself together, a china vase that’s been superglued back into shape. He’s so far away, and Zayn doesn’t know how to get him back. Or if he should. Or what he can say to even begin to close the space between them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he hears himself breathe, and he hadn’t expected those words, but he means them. 

He means them. He could shout and scream and destroy the bedroom and remove all traces of Harry from his life, from himself, but what would it do? He’d still lie awake remembering the look on Harry’s face when Zayn let him down, left him, broke him. He’d still remember the way Harry touched him, so gently, and kissed all over his skin as though worshipping some kind of deity that last night they had together. Zayn meant something to Harry that can’t be put into words, but even so, it can be blemished and torn apart by any more daggers that Zayn might fling at him, and those kind of scars can’t be scrubbed clean. He says sorry, and he means it. 

Harry gulps carefully. ‘What for?’ he says. He sounds suddenly weary.

Suddenly exhausted.

‘Everything. I don’t know, just – everything.’

More silence. Zayn tries to imagine Harry in LA, shoulders curved defensively so that he looks smaller, long fingers clutching the phone, mouth twisted, the Hollywood sign behind him like a fake set backdrop. He thinks of how happy Harry sounded just minutes ago, the gleeful chime of his laugh, and there’s an eruption of regret low in Zayn’s stomach.

‘I should go –’

Harry cuts across him. ‘Why are you ringing me?’ he asks, and there’s something in his voice. Something almost… cold.

And Zayn nearly laughs, because why is he? To confirm facts he knew were true? To shout at Harry, to ask _how could you leave me?_ or _why did you?_ or _how the fuck’s LA?_ or _do you and all your fancy new pals suck each other off and get your assholes bleached together and laugh about all the sad saps you left behind in rainy old London?_. Or was it just to hear Harry’s voice? 

He doesn’t know.

‘Are you happy?’ Zayn asks, more desperately than he would have liked. 

And that’s why. 

Even though he didn’t know it. That’s why.

Harry takes a deep, reedy breath, and Zayn’s head spins. ‘I’m trying,’ Harry says flatly. It makes the world feel like it’s upended, and something painful claws over Zayn’s chest when Harry repeats in a much smaller, more breakable voice, ‘I’m trying.’

‘What can I do?’ Zayn says, trying to ignore the acidic feeling clawing up his throat, hot and thick like bile. He’s breathless and hysterical but so heartbreakingly, achingly sincere, tears dripping from the jut of his lower lip. ‘I’ll do anything. I’ll do – I’ll be whatever you need me to be. I’ll – I’ll do anything.’

‘For what?’

‘For you to be happy. So you don’t have to try anymore.’ He closes his eyes, wet eyelashes gamming together. The words are spilling from him and he has no idea where they come from, but he knows them to be true in the spaces between his bones, in the crimson creases of his heart. ‘Just tell me. Please. I’ll do anything.’

He wishes he could see Harry’s face. There must be indecision there, or maybe reluctance, with how long he takes to reply. There must be something stirring up the stiff set of his bones, a heat to his skin, something mapped on the body Zayn used to know so well.

‘Why?’ Harry says eventually, voice cracking, but even with that one slip he still sounds defensive, and with every sharp breath he takes a hole appears in Zayn, huge hollowing cavities speckling his chest like bullet holes, one after one. ‘Aren’t you mad at me for leaving, Zayn?’

‘Oh, I’m fucking furious,’ Zayn half-laughs, his lower lip trembling. ‘I’d never felt so vulnerable in all my life that night, and you – you… It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.’

‘You do,’ Harry says in a small, faraway voice. ‘You do care. Don’t pretend, Zayn. Not to me.’

 _Not to me._  
Because the two of them, together, aren’t like everyone else. There’s not the same rules, or boundaries. They’re different, together. Because they shared a summer that was perfect when they were young enough for that perfection to seal itself to their still growing heart and bind itself there forever. Because they were old enough to feel everything ten times harder and faster than they should, but young enough to not care. Because they loved each other, and have done so, unconditionally, for ten years.

_Not to me._

‘You never called,’ Harry says to fill the silence, and his voice is so fragile Zayn feels like the phone should crack against his cheek. ‘I thought you would call when I wasn’t there in the morning.’

‘You never called _me_ ,’ Zayn counteracts, and he hears Harry exhale sharply at the end of the line. ‘But I’m calling now, aren’t I? What do I get, Harry? A best friend badge? A gold star?’

Maybe a year ago, Zayn might have snapped. But the wounds cut too deep now and he’s wilting, the rose of his heart shrivelling in the snowy cavern of his chest. There’s no room for bitterness anymore. There’s no room for anything but the sound of Harry breathing, a steady billow down the phone line that Zayn used to feel right against the taut skin of his neck, the cartilage of his ear, soaking through him to press snug against his bones.

‘We’re not best friends anymore, Zayn,’ is all Harry says. He mutters it gently, slowly, like he’s talking Zayn away from a sheer drop, and Zayn just sits there, still, wordless, as everything inside him starts to bleed. ‘I’ve been ringing Zoë and your mum because Amber’s my goddaughter. I want her to know me. I – I love her, and it’s important that she knows me.’

He’s talking in carefully chosen, clipped words, an orderly bunch of sounds that buzz in Zayn’s head like the glare of a fire alarm. 

‘But I don’t think you understand,’ Harry goes on in a quivering voice, the mask slipping like the elastic band holding it to his face has snapped. ‘I don’t think you quite understand what has happened to me. And I – I don’t want to discuss that with you, Zayn. Okay?’

‘I do understand,’ Zayn blurts out, if only because he’s trying to drown out the sound of Harry’s shaky breath down the receiver. He claws at his burning chest through his shirt even though Harry can’t see him, tears dripping down onto his forearm. ‘I get it. It’s here in me, too. Even though _you’re_ not here, Harry.’ He presses his hand over his face. ‘You’re not here. You’re not here.’

He can hear Harry’s crying too, even though he’s trying to maintain his composure. But Zayn knows him, and he can knows this. He would plunge his hand down the receiver and let it break up into particles and be zapped across space if he knew it would take him to Harry, let him wipe his tears away. 

‘We’re not bad people, Zayn,’ Harry sobs. ‘You’re the best person I’ve ever met. But what we did to each other, sometimes, was bad. The things we made each other feel sometimes were bad and ugly and it – it shouldn’t be like that, because you’re – you’re golden to me. I can’t lose that. I’m sorry.’

Zayn’s breath evaporates from every last corner of his lungs. ‘Harry –’

‘I want to be happy. I’m trying so hard.’ He sniffs down the line and Zayn still can’t breathe. ‘And everything I am is everything that we’ve done to each other and it’s scratched all over me in marks that don’t fade. Everyone knows who I am because of you. Everyone can see what’s happened.’

‘ _You left me_ ,’ Zayn tries to say, but it comes out choked, strangled, and if his hands weren’t grasping at his own face, his hair, the phone, he’d think he had a hand around his neck.

‘No, you did. Again and again. For ten years.’ His voice is wet, broken, and Zayn knows he has to hang up soon because the room’s tightening again, and his breath is getting thinner and harder to hold onto. ‘You left and you left craters in me and I don’t know how to be a person anymore. I’m so sorry. I won’t call anymore, all right? I’m so sorry.’

And that – that fucking _kills_. Harry gives everything. He gives kindness and effort and energy to everything and everyone, gives encouragement and praise and intensity and concentration, but he never gives up. Until now.

‘Don’t say sorry,’ Zayn manages to splutter, his voice breaking. ‘Not for this. Not ever. Not to me.’

Harry doesn’t wait to hear anything else. 

The line goes dead, that astronomical connection between them dissolving, maybe for the last time, and the phone blares flatly into Zayn’s ear. 

Like a monitor hooked up to a lifeless heart.

  
+++

  
****

A few years ago, Zayn might’ve curled up into a ball somewhere and wallowed, let the pain drown him. He might’ve downed a bottle of something alcoholic, or rolled a joint or twenty, or gathered all of the memorabilia he has left of Harry and assemble a bonfire he’d never be brave enough to actually ignite.

But he’s a father now, and the time for those kind of dramatics has long since passed.

So he cries and he gathers himself and he goes downstairs. He puts all of the plates in the dishwasher and shares work stories with Caroline and laughs with his sisters and lets Niall’s dog lick all over his face as if she knows and is washing the pain away. He kisses his mum and he smiles carefully at a suspicious looking Louis, and the whole time he holds Amber close, smoothing her hair and pressing his nose to her cheek and blowing raspberries against her neck.

Even so… There’s a numbness creeping in, smudging the grey edges of his body blue, and it trembles and echoes to the sound of Harry’s voice.

 _I want to be happy. I’m trying so hard._

He says goodbye to everyone in this state, smiling and hugging and laughing on autopilot, his smile stiff like his lips are made of iron. He can taste it, too, a metallic bloodiness when he licks the dry edge of his mouth and tries to keep his composure. It tastes like the rest of his life.

_I won’t call anymore._

Almost everyone’s gone, now, been shuttled out the door with slices of cake in napkins and promises to visit soon. Everyone except Zayn’s father, who hesitates in the doorway, dark eyes brimming with something Zayn can’t even bear to look at. He snatches Zayn up into a hug and kisses between his eyebrows, just like he used to when Zayn was little, swaddled in his cotton pyjamas with all the buttons done up wrong. 

‘When will you learn to see the good you bring to everything?’ he murmurs against Zayn’s skin, gripping his arms so tightly it almost hurts. ‘When will you learn that nothing in the world matters more than your happiness?’

Zayn’s lip wobbles. 

‘I am happy, Baba,’ he chokes, swaying on the spot as his father pulls away and rubs his thumb under Zayn’s red-rimmed eye. He sounds five years old. It strikes him that he hasn’t called his dad Baba in years, and it makes him want to press his face against his father’s chest and never draw away. ‘I promise. You don’t need to worry about me. Please.’

His dad just shakes his head at him, smiling sadly. ‘You’re a father now, too. You know it’s all we do.’ He presses his fingers under Zayn’s jaw and stares at him imploringly. ‘Chin up?’

Zayn tries to smile and doesn’t quite get away with it. ‘Always is, Dad. Always is.’

  
+++

  
****

Sounds and shapes ooze in the cracks of Zayn’s brain, drenching the colour of his soul black, as he takes Amber upstairs.

_You left and you left craters in me._

The water of her bath swirls and bubbles and clouds over Zayn’s eyes.

_I want to be happy._

Her dark, small room. The walls pressing in on him.

_I won’t call anymore._

He trips downstairs once she’s asleep and he feels like his lungs are being shredded apart. There’s no sense in it, this feeling. He feels empty and hollow and torn and ripped and so, so full and tense and overflowing, so stuffed to the brim with shadows of Harry that he isn’t allowed to chase anymore. And he understands that and he accepts that and he wants to be free of it, but there’s nowhere else for all this feeling to go. 

He wants to stick a hand in his chest and pull each part of Harry out, like separating a dark and white wash, and set Harry down somewhere safe and warm and far away, somewhere he can’t dilute all of Zayn’s socks grey anymore.

He wants to run away and shed his skin and start all over again, be someone new, someone who’s never seen or heard of or been touched by Harry Styles.

He wants to blast himself back in time and stay ten-years-old forever, eating in front of the TV on a Saturday night with his sisters, watching Ant & Dec on the telly.

He wants Harry here. Even now.

‘You’re still here?’ he says without much ceremony when he finds Louis splayed out across the sofa, stuffing his face with cake. Louis looks up at him, crumbs all around his mouth, and springs to his feet.

‘Good observation, Zayn, well done.’

‘Why hasn’t Zo got rid of you?’

Louis rolls his eyes. ‘Charming as ever. Come on, we’re going for a walk.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes we are, lad. Chop chop.’ He takes Zayn by the elbow and turns him around, steering him out of the house before Zayn has a chance to protest, or call out to Zoë for back up.

The street outside is bathed in orange light as the sun sets, and it’s chilly enough that Zayn shivers as he scrubs a hand through his hair. Louis’ still got hold of his arm, but after walking quietly for a few moments, he slides it down and wraps gentle fingers around Zayn’s wrist.

‘Are you holding my hand?’ Zayn asks. He wants to snort, but he doesn’t have the heart.

‘In your dreams,’ Louis snipes, but he is, anyway. And it’s nice.

Zayn taught Louis how to ride a bike when they were eight. To this day, the moment he let go of the handlebars and let Louis try to ride for himself is the only memory he has of Louis truly frightened,. But Louis’ never let fear stop him, is the thing. He grinned at Zayn over his shoulder and clung to the handlebars with dirty nails and yelled ‘I’m flying, Zayn!’ before tumbling headfirst into a bed of nettles. 

Zayn envies him.

‘Wanna sit?’ Louis asks, pointing to a small alley between two houses. Zayn blinks at him distrustfully, and Louis just shrugs, smiling. ‘I want a cig.’

‘Thought you’d given them up?’

‘Only when El’s asking.’

They sit together on the dirty floor, knees pulled up to their chests, backs against sturdy brick. Light slithers into the alley and warms Zayn’s face, tangling with his eyelashes. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes.

‘I want you to be happy, mate,’ Louis says carefully, not looking at him when Zayn cracks an eyelid in surprise. ‘You’ve been my best mate since nursery. And you’re not happy.’ Louis exhales, not looking at him. ‘It breaks my heart.’

‘I am,’ Zayn insists, reaching for Louis’ leg and squeezing. 

‘Zayn –’

‘I’ve got the job of my dreams, yeah? And Amber. And _you_. I couldn’t ¬–’

‘Please don’t lie to me,’ Louis interrupts, tapping his cigarette and looking at Zayn sharply, but there’s a desperate curl to his voice that Zayn’s never heard before. ‘I don’t deserve that, mate. I don’t.’

Zayn swallows and looks down at his knees. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘I want you to – to fucking _acknowledge_ that this is a thing,’ Louis says, throwing his arms out. ‘We’re fucking _old_ , you know, Zayn. We’re like actual adults now, and you’re stuck on this. You can’t get over this.’

‘I know,’ Zayn almost snaps, running a hand through his hair. ‘I know, all right? But I – I don’t know how to get over it. To get over him. And I don’t know if it’s because I don’t want to, or if I’ve been doing something wrong, or if – if I _can’t._ ’ He takes a long, shaky pull of his cigarette to distract from the quiver in his voice, the pulverising beat of his heart. ‘But it’s done, okay? I make him sad. I can’t do that anymore.’

‘What about _you_ , though?’ Louis asks, leaning forward, but Zayn shakes his head.

‘Who cares? We’re bad for each other. I make him feel shit.’

Louis frowns, blinking at him in silence, and then rolls his eyes. ‘Fuck off, Zayn. You both know that’s not true.’

‘He told me as much on the phone today!’ Zayn barks, and even as he glares defensively at Louis he feels a fresh batch of tears pressing against the corners of his eyes.

Brilliant. 

‘Look, Zayn, listen –’

‘No, Lou,’ Zayn says, shaking his head. ‘You don’t get it, okay? It’s not anything to do with him. It’s – it’s me. When I went away from home, for uni, when I left him, it’s like all these parts inside of me got carved out, like – like when you take all the gunk from inside a pumpkin.’ He pauses to let the tremor in his voice subside. ‘I was all hollow and all the – all the _nice_ parts of me were taken out, and I try and get them back but I don’t know how. And it’s like someone’s cut out the shape of who I am, but it’s not me anymore. Yeah, do you see? I’m not – I don’t know how to –’

‘Zayn, come off it,’ Louis says gently, squeezing his knee. ‘You do realise you’re being ridiculous, don’t you?’

Zayn wipes his face roughly with his forearm and pushes Louis off with a surge of embarrassment. ‘Don’t.’

‘You’re still _nice_ , you bellend,’ Louis admonishes, stubbing his cigarette. ‘I mean, even to me. I’m probably one of the worst humans in the world and look how great you are to me, yeah? You’ve been to every single show I’ve put on since moving to London and you _always_ say they’re good.’

Zayn sniffs. ‘They are,’ he mumbles.

‘What did we say about lying?’ Louis says, flicking Zayn on the cheek. A ghost of a smile visits Zayn’s lips. ‘And you were a great best man at my wedding. Threw me a sick stag do, didn’t you? Prague will never recover.’ Zayn snorts perfunctorily. ‘And you were a great, reliable best mate growing up. Always had my back every time I vomited on someone or offended someone’s mum. And you’re a great godfather to my wonderful, beautiful terror of a child. And you continually, every single day, pretend and smile and go through the motions for other people, and don’t let yourself just… _be_. And I don’t get it.’ Zayn freezes, hairs on his neck standing on end, as Louis leans back against the wall and sighs, chewing on his lip contemplatively. ‘When was the last time you did something for yourself? Like, completely, utterly selfishly?’

Zayn blinks and then shakes off the paralysis, frowning deeply. ‘Everyone’s selfish all the time, Lou.’

‘No seriously. Think about it.’

Zayn huffs and picks at the rip in his jeans. It is true that most of his decisions are made with the booming, intense voice blaring through a megaphone in the back of his mind that any wrong step has the potential to disappoint. To let other people down. To upset or alarm or cause offense. But…

‘I quit my job,’ he offers. ‘I left the Institute to work to work for the Nature show.’

Louis squawks. ‘Job related things only count if you ran away to join the circus,’ he bellows, pinching Zayn again. ‘Not exactly wildly selfish, is it? Hopping from one middle class establishment to the other!’

Zayn laughs at that, just a little, the corner of his mouth curving skywards. But then it drops again in time with his heart, which has settled on the floor between his toes.

‘Harry,’ he mumbles, eyes downcast. His name tastes like blood in Zayn’s mouth. ‘In Barcelona, and just … everything. I’ve always wanted him so much, and I just – I just took and took from him.’

‘You didn’t always,’ Louis argues in a firm voice. ‘You were so loyal to him, when he was with Nick, when he went away, when he was working in LA. I couldn’t do that, when El had a boyfriend during uni. At every opportunity I’d throw myself at her; you know I did. But you didn’t. You waited.’

‘And I fucked up, whenever I couldn’t wait.’ His mouth feels like it’s filled with tar. ‘I hurt him.’

‘You did,’ Louis says flatly, nodding. He looks at Zayn carefully and then shrugs. ‘You’ve fucked up big time. He was quite insatiably in love with you for a very long time and you hurt him and pushed him away because you were scared of letting yourself be happy. Do you know that?’

Zayn’s mouth goes dry. 

‘You can’t deal with the idea that you can be given something and that it won’t hurt someone, somewhere. And I don’t know why you’re like that, Zayn, but you are. You fabricated a bunch of excuses for a whole fucking decade and then whined and bitched about being alone and I sat through it wanting to fucking _kill_ you.’ Louis laughs, pinching Zayn’s leg. Zayn just sits there, immobile. ‘And the one really selfish thing you could have done would be to let Harry love you and love him back, and it would have made everyone happy. _Everyone_. So let that sink in. _That’s_ where you fucked up.’

Zayn just stares.

_Well fuck._

‘You’re my best mate,’ Louis says, more gently now, blinking at him. His eyelashes are framed in gold. ‘And I want you to be happy. And I want you to know that you’re allowed to be, and that you don’t need to sacrifice that for other people, because that’s not how it should work. I want you to make decisions for yourself that’ll let you be happy. I want you to be able to walk away from shit and walk _into_ shit and know that all your walking is _wholly_ for you. Okay?’

Zayn stares at him dumbly. The air around them seems fragile and brittle like caramel, like it might snap. 

‘But I want Harry,’ he whispers, almost petulantly, clinging to Louis like he holds all the answers in the world. ‘He’ll make me happy.’

Louis chews on his lip and blinks at Zayn sadly. ‘We don’t always get what we want, though, do we? That’s out of your control. But this –’ He flicks Zayn’s heart through his chest, too hard for it to be a sweet gesture. ‘– That’s yours, man. You can choose whether or not to keep on waiting and pining, but you’re just letting yourself break it. And you’re a dad, you know.’ He smiles wryly. ‘You have a responsibility now to look after it, otherwise Amber might notice she has a sad sap for a father.’

Zayn exhales slowly, letting himself absorb that slowly, feeling it inch into his skin like blood through a bandage.

And he feels… content.

Not free from the ache that Harry’s left all over him, rotting in his bones. 

Not better, not fixed.

Not happy. Not yet.

But content. He’s sat with his best friend on the filthy ground in some poor, unsuspecting person’s alleyway, warmed by the setting sun, and do you know – 

He’s lucky he has this. People who care for him, so much they can’t bear to see him sad. People who see him entirely, better than he can see himself.

And he knows this is it. And he can keep breathing. He can live without Harry, even if it’s like hobbling about without most of his vital organs, even if it means he might miss him so much sometimes the leaking pipe of his heart might suddenly burst. 

He knows this is for the best. He has to try and let Harry be happy without him. And he has to try and finally let himself be happy, too.

Even if trying is all he ever manages to do.

‘So you’re saying… I should give up?’ he clarifies, nudging Louis with his shoe. It makes the corner of his mouth droop, weighed down by the gentle tug of inevitability. 

Louis cracks a small smirk. ‘I’m saying that you’re an old man and you don’t have much time left now. You’re on the way out. YOLO and all that. Live a good life before it’s too late.’

Zayn looks at him. Louis looks back. And then they’re both laughing, properly, with the sun warm and bright on their faces like it’s laughing too.

_You left and you left craters in me._

_I want to be happy._

_I won’t call anymore._

_Live a good life before it’s too late._

From tomorrow, then. 

He’s going to reconstruct himself, right from scratch.

  
****

**_but I gotta tell you_  
Thursday, 1st December 2022 ******

  
****

Zayn learns, in time, to build a home out of himself.

It’s almost funny, somehow, that he’s a month away from turning thirty and he feels like he’s only just properly moved in, unpacked all of his junk and nailed it to the walls and found places, spaces, for it all.

It took a long time to renovate. He had to tear down all the old wallpaper, rework the wiring, throw out lots of clunky furniture that was taking up too much space. Fears and regrets and mouldy memories that took the shape of wrought iron beds and huge chests of drawers and clattering old cupboards. Such an enormous redesign takes a long while, and it was hard. Harder than he thought it’d be.

It took months and months and months. It took every single day of a whole year.

And now he’s fashioned a tiny home, and by all means, it’s not perfect. The new wallpaper has damp in the corners if you look too closely, dark stains the colour of Zayn’s lingering unhappiness, when he feels lonely and sad and sick of not being loved in return. Sometimes there are cobwebs in all the dark shadows of the rooms that he can’t sweep up, memories that haunt him, glimpses of the past he wishes he could rewrite. Sometimes he leaves the bed unmade for days, the red velvet duvet of his heart feeling crumpled, tired, alone.

But it wouldn’t be a proper home if there weren’t some dodgy parts – a creaky step, a leaking tap, a loose spring in the mattress. It’s bright and warm and full of stuff, of everything he loves, displayed proudly everywhere, because he won’t ever forget or shove away what he loves ever again. He keeps the garden nice and the paint fresh and he closes the shutters whenever there’s a storm, but the hurricanes of disappointment, of heartbreak and frustration and rejection, don’t scare him as much anymore. His bones are made of bricks and mortar and they can’t be broken by a breeze. 

So every day he tidies up. He walks around himself and takes a look around and thinks, _this is okay, Zayn. Who you are is okay_. And he throws away that lone sock hiding under the sofa, whatever that is that’s been going mouldy at the back of the fridge. Every day, he de-clutters himself and he takes a deep breath and breathes himself in.

And _lets go._

  
+++

  
****

There’s a space next to Zoë about halfway down the aisle, and Zayn slips into it as surreptitiously as he can, kissing her cheek as a hello. Max is next to her and when he leans forward to shake Zayn’s hand, Zayn smiles genuinely at him, tongue pressed against his teeth.

‘Shit morning, init?’ Zayn comments brightly, still grinning brightly. ‘Took ten minutes to defrost the car.’

‘Ours too,’ Max says. ‘We half froze to death waiting for it to warm up.’

‘They’re give minutes late on,’ Zoë says to Zayn quietly, her hand on his knee. ‘Miss Gabriella just came out to say.’

Miss Gabriella is the ballet teacher, and she is terrifying in every respect. Her hair is pulled back so tightly it gives her an un-surgical facelift, and she shaves her eyebrows off and draws them back on in what looks like black Sharpie.

‘The artistes need time to prepare,’ Zayn says back earnestly, and Zoë laughs. ‘Art rushes for nobody.’

‘El and Lou are somewhere at the back,’ Zoë tells him, but she needn’t have because Zayn can hear them all the way from here, talking far too loudly about Miss Gabriella’s resemblance to Miss Trunchball as their baby Samuel gurgles with the force and volume of a tractor.

‘I wonder whether Chris has broken anything yet,’ Zayn asks, chewing at his lip. Louis and Eleanor’s eldest son has also taken up ballet with Amber, which mostly means bobbing up and down on the spot and running around in circles. Chris somehow manages to be hideously terrible at it nonetheless, despite Louis’ theatrical expertise and Eleanor’s innate gracefulness. Zoë was unimpressed when Amber announced she wanted to start ballet lessons – Zayn suspects she’d prefer Amber took up judo or rugby or kickboxing – but it’s difficult to argue with a three-year-old, and when Zayn peers furtively at Zoë, she seems almost excited. 

‘I’d be surprised if Chris doesn’t improvise the routine,’ Zoë says under her breath. ‘I’m sure Lou will have encouraged that.’

‘Miss Gabriella will be outraged.’

‘Imagine the eyebrows.’

The classroom lights go black with dramatic abruptness and there’s a hush amongst the parents, breath bated, cameras poised, bums shuffling on the tiny plastic chairs meant for infants. Zoë squeezes Zayn’s hand and Zayn thinks of all the things they’ve shared together, birthdays and Christmases and first teeth and visits to the doctors for tearful jabs and all the things to come, like next September and Amber’s first day at school. There’s something in that, isn’t there? A relationship bound together not by like or dislike, by feeling or attraction or sex or marriage or history, but by experience, a shared knowledge that for the rest of their lives, they will come together to watch Amber grow. 

She shuffles out from behind the makeshift curtain now in a pastel blue tutu, hazel eyes wide and shy just like Zayn’s, furiously avoiding looking at the audience as she clutches Chris’ hand. None of the other boys have donned a skirt but Chris is not a child to be told no, and he stands there beaming in a hot pink tutu, waving at nobody in particular. Zayn feels a flood of warmth for him, and for his daughter, who is almost hiding herself behind Chris with her face to the floor. 

But then the music starts and all fourteen of them start bobbing, feet turned out, hideously out of time with each other. Miss Gabriella is hissing instructions over the spritely tones of Tchaikovsky, eyebrows arched like a _Disney_ villain, and suddenly Zayn’s finding it fucking hilarious. Chris tries an impromptu pirouette and Miss Gabriella looks like she’s just delivered a kidney stone and Zayn’s laughing so hard there’s tears in his eyes, hands pressed to his face, shoulders shaking. Zoë keeps pinching his thigh, staring at him incredulously, but then Chris starts shouting ‘Hi, Daddy!’ at Louis, who is probably doing something equally as embarrassing and hysterical at the back of the room, and Zoë bursts out laughing too, her head in her hands.

A large man in front turns around and scowls at them, and Zayn just laughs louder because there’s no way he isn’t finding this funny. One of the kids turns and shakes his little bum as though he’s dancing to Beyoncé and Zayn can’t catch his breath, snorting into his hand and clutching at his stomach, collapsing in his seat. He turns in his seat gleefully, craning his neck to see if Louis and El are in similar hysterics, and –

His heart stops.

The smile slips right off his face, the ghost of it remaining in the ache of his cheeks and the wetness at the corners of his eyes. Next to Louis and Eleanor, with baby Samuel bouncing in his lap and a smile contorting his face, wrinkling the skin by his eyes and pressing a dimple in his cheek that after all this time, still makes Zayn want to die, is Harry Styles.

Zayn looks around blankly, searching for another alarmed face, another _why the fuck is there a hologram projection in this room?_ but everyone else is absorbed with their children, or staring intently at the screens of their phones as they record the show. Zayn turns slowly to face the front, eyes unfocussed, fists clenching in his lap. His heart is scorching like a fucking comet in his chest and he stares and stares and stares forward until he has to sneak another glance over his shoulder, just to check. 

His hair is pulled back into a bun, he’s wearing a grey t-shirt and a black coat and he’s curling his big hand around Samuel’s back, keeping him upright, and when he laughs again, Zayn snaps his gaze away abruptly. He sits unnaturally straight in the seat like there’s a pole pressed against his spine, practically panting, a little shake of panic in his hands.

_Harry is here. He’s here. On this continent, in this city, in this room. Feet away. Seconds away. Not far away at all._

It’s been two years, and Zayn’s been fine. Missing him dreadfully, yes, but working hard to peel away the regret and the guilt and the anger and the sadness. He’s been happy. He’s been fine. 

But Harry’s here. Harry’s _here._

And, God, does he look beautiful. Zayn feels sick.

The second song finishes and the third begins, _Swan Lake_ now, and he wishes all these toddlers bouncing along to one of the most famous pieces of music of all time was still quite so funny, but it’s not anymore. Amber is staring absently in Zayn and Zoë’s direction, her interest getting sloppier almost perfectly in time to Zayn getting tenser, fingers distractedly shoved in her mouth, and Zayn gives her what he hopes is a reassuring thumbs up, grinning with his whole face, teeth on display. She smiles back and waves, and Zayn feels the tiniest pinch of tension shifting from his shoulder blades, like a pebble falling from a mountain.

He doesn’t want to turn around again, but he does anyway, because more than anything he’s terrified he’ll turn to find Harry’s disappeared without a goodbye. Harry’s still smiling, though, dancing Samuel on his knee, fingers wrapped around his chubby arms, swaying him from side to side. He turns around with a lead-weighted heart, ferociously concentrating on Amber until the audience erupts into applause and cheering and the lights are flickering overhead as they’re switched back on and when he glances back over his shoulder, suddenly Harry is looking straight at him.

It feels like a gunshot to the chest. 

It’s only for a moment, but the way Harry blinks back at him makes Zayn’s heart curl in on itself like he burning of the edges of paper with a lighter. Harry’s mouth gapes open, his awful rabbit teeth poking out from beneath the spongy pink of his upper lip, before his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, wetting them. Zayn remembers his fingers in Harry’s mouth, the way his skin looked paper thin and translucent under the harsh McDonald’s lighting, so long ago. He remembers the way that mouth said _I love you_ , two whole years ago. 

He jumps at the feel of Zoë’s hand on his arms, whipping around. He smiles reassuringly at her, clapping along with everyone else, but he can’t hear the applause over the flood in his ears, stomach lurching with it. The room feels topsy turvy, a house of fun flipping itself over in tune with Zayn’s stomach, swirling around like a tumble drier.

And when he turns back again, Harry’s gone.

Zayn’s breath feels punched out of him. He leans forward in his seat, craning his neck, but Samuel is in Eleanor’s arms now and Harry’s not there, not there, not there. He looks sharply over at the door and sees the slope of his back disappearing around it, long coat flapping by his knees.

Zayn sits there, dazed, as the children bow and file off. It’s as though he’s been tugged from a dream, as though he’s had that clamorous yank back to reality that interrupts light sleep and hits just as hard as falling out of a tree. Everything seems bright and sharp and his teeth feel hard against his tongue and it’s – it’s like he’s been living in a strange catatonic cloud for the past year. It’s like the world has suddenly switched to Technicolor when he hadn’t even realised he’d been existing in black and white. 

‘Sorry, would you excuse me?’ Zayn’s mumbling to the woman next to him, clambering over her knees and nearly tumbling headfirst to the floor when his ankle gets caught on the strap of her handbag. He rights himself and scurries off down the aisle of plastic chairs and out of the classroom before he can change his mind.

‘Harry!’ he calls after Harry’s back, his voice echoing down the corridor. There are pictures peeling off the walls, satisfyingly square houses with pink nuclear families and out of place rockets and dinosaurs and wild animals sitting incongruously in front gardens. It all seems weird and unreal, and the air feels thick as Harry stops and turns towards him in the manner of someone looking at their hangman, hands in his pockets, face full of dread.

He looks small, standing there in the corridor. Small and jagged at the edges and closing himself off, shutting himself down. And yet, still insanely, unfairly gorgeous. Zayn draws towards him in ancient, crumbling Doc Marten’s, the floor old and reassuringly primary school-ish under his feet as his heart wedges itself firmly in his throat like a doorstop. 

‘You’re here,’ is all Zayn says quietly. And he is – he’s here, and it’s him, the pink slash of his mouth against his skin, the curve of his eyelashes. There’s something different about him, though, after two years of nothing, something more biologically brutal about the tanned stretch of skin over his cheekbone or the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, flagging his age. There are bruises beneath his eyes from lack of sleep and there’s stubble along his jaw and all of it makes him look even nicer, somehow. So nice it curls around Zayn’s heart like a fist, shaking it, rattling it awake. He’s never seen anything so beautiful.

‘Yeah, I am,’ Harry says slowly. He doesn’t look at Zayn, just blinks at the floor instead. ‘I came back for Gem’s birthday, so I thought…’

‘You came to see Amber,’ Zayn finishes for him, breathless. Harry’s been halfway around the fucking world for two years, but he’s here tonight, in a tiny primary school in Wanstead, watching three-year-old children make a farce out of ballet. It makes his lungs ripple with something unimaginable and he takes a step forward.

‘I’m staying with Louis and Eleanor,’ Harry says, which doesn’t add anything at all but Zayn nods anyway. He glances up at Zayn, coughs awkwardly into his fist and steps back, reaffirming what Zayn imagines he considers a reasonable distance between them. It feels so far to Zayn, though. Like there’s miles wrenching them apart.

And Harry’s face is so full of _hurt._ That’s not fresh pain pulling at the soft edges of his mouth, clouding up his eyes so that he can barely bring himself to momentarily meet Zayn’s gaze. That’s deep-rooted, festering, horrible pain that’s been spitting and slicing up Harry for years, and Zayn can’t breathe at all. 

‘I’m gonna go now,’ Harry mumbles, hands retreating into his pockets. ‘Sorry that I… came or whatever. I know we don’t – don’t do this anymore.’

Zayn fists a hand in his hair and just stares at him, unsure what to say. There’s five million things he could say but all of them are contradictory and none of them seem to want to come out, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Harry hesitates for half a second, hovering on the spot, eyes trained somewhere by Zayn’s elbow. He pauses like he’s waiting for something, but Zayn doesn’t know how to make his body work anymore, and then Harry walks away.

There’s something symmetrical, cyclical about it, Harry leaving him in a school corridor, just like how they started. Twelve years ago, Zayn had been sitting on the floor outside the rehearsal room with his sketchbook and Harry had walked over, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie undone and dangling around his neck, guitar-case hanging from his shoulder. It had been December then too, mist at the windows, radiators clattering wheezily, a distant, ghostly chatter drifting through the corridor. Harry had sauntered over to him with his hands in his pockets and his shoes decaying at the soles and smiled down at Zayn with the smile that, ten years later, still ignites Zayn’s heart, and said ‘ _Hello_.’

Zayn watches him walk away, twelve years older but marred by a posture still just as awful, feet still just as stupid and pigeon-toed, and there are tears pressing at Zayn’s eyes. Everything’s the same, but it’s different. They’re the same anymore. He’s been changed and so has Harry, and Zayn might be sick as Harry heaves open the door to the playground, a puff of cold air rushing in like freezer smoke.

And then he’s gone.

It’s terrifying, the way Zayn’s chest feels like it’s concaving when Harry disappears. He should go back into the classroom, where no doubt Miss Gabriella is giving a post-show soliloquy before the children will be dispatched back to their parents. Then he’ll say goodbye and go to work and get on with his day and forget all about Harry. 

This is how he’s been living now. Louis told him to give up, and he has. He goes whole days where his thoughts of Harry are confined to the briefest moments – a smile when he hears his newest song on the radio, a tug of his heart when he sees someone who resembles him on the street, a zinging in his fingertips when he lies down in bed and thinks of the space Harry could occupy beside him. But he doesn’t wallow, anymore. He’s found peace in himself, found it in all the crevices of his body, and he found it all by himself, without Harry. Ten years ago, he’d never have thought he could feel close to whole without Harry beside him.

And he’s happy. Happy enough. 

So he knows what he should do, what would be the _right_ thing to do, but somehow his body doesn’t agree, because he’s following Harry out of the door after only the briefest hesitation, feet heavy on the old wood floor.

‘Harry wait!’ he calls after him loudly. His voice cuts through the still, icy morning air of the playground, and his heart does a weird sort of cartwheel as Harry pauses by a huge black Range Rover, hand comically poised on the door handle. He twitches like he might turn around, shoulders flinching beneath his coat, but he doesn’t.

Zayn hurries over to him, ignoring the way his feet slip on the wet tarmac and his hot breath clouds in front of him, all warmth visibly seeping from his mouth.

‘So are you…’ Zayn starts awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. He’s still speaking to Harry’s back. ‘Are you, like. Staying here? Or leaving?’

_Please don’t leave again. Please please please please please don’t leave me again._

‘I’m, uh.’ Harry looks at Zayn over his shoulder, voice stiff. He looks like an animal that’s been cornered, and he quickly aborts the eye contact just as soon as he established it. ‘I’m buying a place in LA after Christmas. 

The air seems to cool by about twenty degrees, chilling Zayn to the bone. ‘Oh. Wow. Oh, okay.’

Harry shrugs and looks at his feet. Zayn just stares at him, the hair curling behind his ear, the tanned skin, the slight wobble of his mouth as he tries to keep it firmly shut. He’s leaving, forever. He’s going to make LA his home for good, eat quinoa and kale and go to pretentious art galleries and golf with rich old people and have _nobody_ to make fun of him. He’s going to walk around naked in some ginormous LA house with air-con and a pool and have some models strewn around in there like pieces of art for him to fuck whenever he likes. Or worse, maybe he’ll find somebody, some horrible American with an awful accent and fake teeth and they’ll settle down and get married and have a kid. He’ll find a forever with someone who isn’t Zayn and that will be it. The thought strikes fear in his heart and he feels his knees wobble dangerously. 

For the first time in two years, the thought of _their_ forever slithers back into view. The Sunday mornings in bed and the shower sex before work and the afternoons in the park eating Tesco sandwiches with Zayn’s head in his lap. All the imagined nights watching _Bake Off_ , cooking each other dinner, going to the cinema and kissing in the back row like teenagers. Everything eighteen-year-old Zayn dreamt of, after discovering a love inside himself for a boy with stupid hair and a smile that devastated him that was so strong and heavy and fragile all at once. It all pops up again like helium balloons against his eyelids, spelling it all out. What about all the holidays, birthdays, new years they could have had together?

LA bulldozes them all down into a tepid mulch of nothing that clogs up Zayn’s throat, his lungs, his heart, and he can’t help it when he reaches out and touches Harry’s elbow, holding it gently. His coat is scratchy against Zayn’s palm, and his touch is so light he doubts Harry can really feel it, but still. 

His heart blooms, still. 

‘How have you been?’ he asks helplessly.

Harry blinks. ‘Trying,’ he says carefully. He looks up from his shoes but still he doesn’t look at Zayn, focussing on the handle of his car door. ‘I should go.’

The way he says it makes Zayn feel like he’s been slapped, and his hand falls from Harry’s elbow. Harry’s not argumentative, not like Louis or Zayn, but he knows how to be so cold it stings like salt in a wound. For someone so emotionally lucid, he’s always been the master of shrugging and sighing and mumbling under his breath, and somehow it hurts so much more than if he just grabbed Zayn and screamed at him. 

And how can Zayn blame him? After all that’s been said and done. He can understand Harry wanting to walk away.

That’s what Louis said, after all. That’s what Zayn should be doing.

_What is he doing?_

‘Okay,’ Zayn says, doing his best to speak through the spit that suddenly feels like tar in his mouth. He takes a careful step back, awkwardly rubbing a hand over the goosebumps on his arm. ‘I hope you – I hope everything works out well. With LA. And that you’re – doing better.’

Harry flinches and Zayn feels the tremor in his bones.

‘Thanks,’ he mutters, face reddening, and suddenly Zayn wants to drop to his knees and press his cheek against Harry’s waist and just _beg_ , just beg him to forget the two years they’ve had apart, forget whatever Zayn’s done to Harry’s mangled heart to make him cringe like that. ‘I’m gonna go,’ Harry says again, turning away, and everything in Zayn is shouting _NO!_ but he can’t catch his breath to speak.

Harry tugs open the door of his car and Zayn knows he needs to walk away but it takes him far longer than it should do to register that. It’s only when Harry’s folded up inside his car, keys in the ignition, hands on the steering wheel, and Zayn faintly hears what’s playing on the stereo through the closed window, that his body finally kicks into gear. 

This is it. The end. 

Zayn stares at him, waiting, maybe for a mouthed _fuck you_ or maybe just for a _see you later_. Maybe for a _goodbye._

For what must be less than a few seconds, Harry stares back. But it feels like a lifetime, and Zayn gets lost in it, irreparable cracks settling over old wounds he’s barely just managed to patch up.

And when Harry says nothing, Zayn knows it’s time. He smiles as best he can and trips away, closing his eyes against the rub of tyre against tarmac as Harry drives away and the song fades and Zayn’s heart goes with it.

_And you are young and life is long and there is time to kill today, and then one day you find ten years have got behind you, no one told you when to run…_

  
+++

  
****

Zayn heads to work in his awful, shit heap of a car, most of his face buried in a scarf and his knees jittering impatiently. Working for the nature department has been fun and liberating, one of Zayn’s favourite things about the New Him; right now they’re working on a programme about tigers in captivity and Zayn had even flown out to India earlier in the year to visit a few zoos. And usually he’s excited to go to work. Today, though…

He can’t shake the look on Harry’s face. 

There’s so many things he didn’t ask. He didn’t ask about Harry’s songwriting or his mum or his friends in LA. He didn’t ask where he’s been living, what his new place looks like, whether he’s with anyone. That’s the part that really hurts, the part that twists like a knife in his stomach. His earlier vision of Harry shacked up with someone in LA might be nearer than Zayn imagined. Maybe Harry has someone already, someone he’s rushing back to, someone he hasn’t been able to leave for two years. Maybe they fuck on a huge LA waterbed and sit by the pool naked watching the sunset and go to parties wearing each other’s clothes. Maybe they hold hands in the street and feed each other in restaurants and this phantom lover knows how to make Harry laugh like Zayn used to, knows how to make him laugh so hard his eyes screw up and his mouth falls open, nose wrinkling. Maybe they listen to _Dark Side of the Moon_ together and it doesn’t even remind him of Zayn anymore. 

And who has he been kidding, really, thinking he’s over this? He’s been fucked for Harry since he was seventeen and that can’t vanish in a year. Especially when Harry looks as he does now, so fragile and damaged and torn apart. The car sits idly at a red light, buzzing beneath Zayn’s thighs, and Zayn longs for him. Not even in a sexual way, and not even in a nostalgic, romantic way. 

Zayn just wants to hold him. 

He wants to kiss over his bruises and show him how much better he has been this year now that he’s forgiven himself, forgiven Harry, for all that’s happened between them. He wants to show Harry what he could be, what he _should_ be. That even the worst scars fade, especially on skin as bright and beautiful and warm as Harry’s is. If only he’d forgive – himself, Zayn, everything about them and what they’ve done. Not forget, just forgive, let time lick over wounds that don’t have to cut as deeply as they do.

He’s yanked back to reality by a piercing, furious cacophony of car horns. The light’s flashed green and Zayn is sitting still, fingers clutching the steering wheel, breath clouding in front of him in the cold car.

And he realises something.

He’s homesick.

And he’s spent twelve years being homesick.

At university, home was his mum, his dad, his sisters, the little house in Bradford with the creaking floors and tiny bedrooms and shit central heating. He craved it so badly his bones ached for it, even in the tiny joints of his knuckles, his toes. And somehow, in time, home’s taken residence in all the empty spaces inside Zayn that he’s always been desperate to fill. He’s found it in himself and it spreads a warmth through him he could never have imagined on all those nights he spent crying and grappling at the empty sheets surrounding him, stinging for a certain someone to share it with him. 

Learning to let go is the best thing Zayn’s ever done for himself.

But sometimes, home isn’t just one place. Home can be a building, or a room, or a bed, but it can also be a whole town, a whole country. It can be one smile or ten people, it can be a single shed or a whole block of flats. 

And maybe the important stuff – the kitchen, the bathroom, the ghostly bedroom – have built themselves inside Zayn. But home is more than that – it’s the smell of food sizzling on the stove drenching the air when you come home from work. It’s the sound of laughter when you wake up in the morning. It’s the feeling of the warm duvet around you, blocking out the cold. That’s home.

And home has always been a boy, a _man_ now, with a gentle smile and big hands and a hawking laugh. Who still wears the same aftershave he wore aged sixteen, whose stupid awful mouth has made Zayn cry multiple times, who has followed and tried and _fought_ for Zayn, even when Zayn shoved him away. 

He’s homesick. Homesick for Harry and everything he’s brought Zayn for so many years, and _God_ , if he willingly lets him go this time, he’s a fucking fool. Despite what Louis said Zayn _knows_ this is right, and he does an illegal and poorly executed U-turn, arms working frantically as he slams on the accelerator and heads back in the direction he came. Even if he has to be friends with Harry for the rest of his life, has to watch him get married and have kids and learn to be happy with somebody else, Zayn will do it. He has to. He won’t ever watch him leave again.

And he won’t leave again. Not ever.

  
+++

  
****

Zayn lets himself into Louis and El’s house like he always does and bounds in with some surreal sort of determination flushing out his blood and replacing it with golden energy. He knows they’ll be in, doing something tragic like eating kettle chips and watching _America’s Next Top Model_ , because Louis only works nights at the theatre and El’s still on maternity leave. He toes off his shoes and sheds his scarf and coat because there are Strict Rules about those sort of things in this house, and then he throws open the door to the living room, striding in with his mouth hanging open, ready to probe them on all and everything they know regarding Harry Styles, when –

_Oh._

They’re perched side by side on the sofa, the baby in Louis’ lap, all three of them staring with bewilderment at Zayn. Louis’ face pales, eyes widening, and then his gaze flickers back to the centre of the room.

Because in the centre of the room is Harry.

Crying.

His face is wet and his nose red, a loose strand of hair falling from his bun and curling against his damp cheek. His shoulders shake as he rubs a hand roughly over his face, unable to look at Zayn even when Zayn stares straight at him with blank confusion, completely frozen in the doorway.

‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Harry croaks, looking only at Louis and Eleanor. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll just go –’

‘Harry, wait,’ Eleanor says, standing, but Harry just shakes his head and Louis just stares at him and Eleanor stares at Zayn and Zayn stares at Harry and Harry doesn’t look at any of them. His face crumples as he makes to slip past Zayn, shoulders hunched as he mumbles a faint ‘ _scuse me_ ’ and manages to slither through the doorway beside Zayn without touching him at all. Zayn stands absolutely glued to the spot as he hears Harry grab his coat from the rack, hears the ruffle of fabric as he shrugs it on, and still he can’t move. He looks over at Louis and El stiffly, his neck all weird like he’s the Tin Man in the _Wizard of Oz_ and his hinges need oiling. They stare back at him, scared and sad and silent, and everything feels wrong.

The front door – already adorned with a wreath – jingles as it opens, and jingles louder as it’s slammed shut.

Silence. Not even Samuel can seem to conjure up a sound to help break it.

‘What was that about?’ Zayn demands slowly, squinting at Louis as though staring at him through fog.

Louis rubs a hand over his face and exhales loudly. ‘Don’t start, Zayn.’

‘I needed to see him. To talk to him.’

‘Zayn –’

‘I want to be his friend.’

‘His _friend_?’

‘Yes! His fucking friend, all right?’ Zayn runs a hand through his hair and looks desperately at the front door, at the shadow of Harry that’s been and gone. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

Eleanor swallows uneasily, fiddling with her hair. ‘He – he found it hard seeing you again, is all. He’s had difficulties with… you know. Moving on.’

 _Moving on_. It hangs like a string of neon fairy lights in the empty space where Harry had just been standing. 

‘We told him how well you’ve been doing,’ Louis adds, a little guiltily, bouncing Samuel on his knee so he doesn’t have to look at Zayn. ‘And he got a little upset.’

Zayn digs his nails into his palms, brain whirring like an engine. Harry’s here. And they talked about Zayn. And Harry cried. And Harry’s had trouble moving on. And everything seems to flash very fast before his eyes but process slowly, like there’s too much information to compute at once. Harry’s here. Crying. About Zayn. Still. And Zayn –

‘Gotta go,’ Zayn says hoarsely, his own voice surprising as he turns on his heel and rushes from the house. 

His legs are shaking as he turns around, skin prickling, heart like an iron weight behind his ribcage, pulse thick on the roof of his mouth.

Harry’s always been the one to make the first move, to close in on Zayn and present his heart as though demonstrating a magic trick, excited and nervous and desperately hopeful. He blinked, wide eyed, and asked Zayn to pick a card, to decide where their path would lead them, and every time Zayn played it safe, ignored the hearts. And despite his best efforts to protect himself, Zayn’s found his own heart desecrated, stamped and spit on, torn apart. Being scared has got him nowhere, too frightened to move, too frightened to change.

_There’s too many feelings and none of them are said out loud, and it’s all too much and not enough and Zayn’s too scared to change things between them and too afraid to let them stay the same._

He thinks of the way Harry kissed him over a decade ago, in the hammock in the garden. His thumb on Zayn’s cheekbone, his mouth soft and wine-stained, closing around Zayn’s lower lip. He thinks of the thunder of his heart in his chest, so strong it made him feel sick, and he remembers the way Harry gripped him like a storm was closing in on them and he was trying to hold on, lunar crescent dents on Zayn’s cheeks, thumb prints on his neck, scratches against his arms. He sleeps like that, too, gripping the pillow as though he might be ripped from the sheets in his sleep. He desperately holds on, clings to things, even when he’s scared. Even when it hurts, Harry never lets go.

And time and time again, Zayn’s let him go, ran away from him and hoped desperately that Harry would follow. But now, he knows, it’s the last time. If he lets him go now, he might never see him again, like letting go of one of those helium balloons his dad used to buy him at the funfair and watching it melt into the blue of the sky. Harry’s brighter than the sun, has got whole universes inside of him, and there’s handfuls of people who’ll gladly be swallowed into his orbit. He can’t wait around for a black hole like Zayn to come and snatch him away.

Even if it means being his friend. Even if it means being nothing but an acquaintance Harry can actually stand to look at, can speak to without his heart tearing itself apart. Even if it hurts and ruins Zayn forever. 

Zayn’s stumbling out into the street without a moment’s hesitation, tripping on a raised paving slab, goosebumps erupting along the exposed skin of his arms. He blurts out a loud _fuck!_ – it can’t be much above freezing out here and he’s just in a t-shirt and his polka dot socks with a hole in the toe – but there’s no time to think of frivolous things like shoes and a coat in a life or death situation like this. Harry’s striding towards his car, hunched back accentuating his appalling posture under the black fabric of his coat, and Zayn feels the heat of his breath as he exhales in a gust, rushing forward and reaching desperately for Harry’s broad shoulders. 

‘Let go,’ Harry snaps, shaking him off roughly, and Zayn feels all his breath squeeze from his lungs when he realises Harry’s properly crying, his voice catching in a sob.

‘Harryharryharryharrywait,’ Zayn says in one go, stroking his hand down Harry’s arm, knocking against the back of Harry’s knees as he tries to keep up with him. Harry shrugs him off harder.

‘ _Don’t_ , Zayn.’

‘I know, I will, just wait, hang on –’

‘Stop –’

‘I’m so sorry, Harry. Please listen, just for a minute –’

‘God, please don’t do this to me,’ Harry whimpers, shaking Zayn off again, and when he realises there’s not anywhere for him to go he just collapses forward onto his car, pressing his face against the doorframe. ‘Just please let me go. Please.’

Zayn swallows. It’s so cold there’s an odd heat in his toes, wet fiery frost seeping through his socks, a burning against the bridge of his nose. Through the window of the house behind Harry, Zayn can see the John Lewis Christmas advert on the TV, some lacklustre fairy lights already strung up around the mantelpiece. He can hear Harry crying in that awful way he does, holding it in so much it sounds like he’s choking, his body almost vibrating in his effort not to explode as he mumbles _please_ under his breath. 

Zayn presses a trembling hand to Harry’s back, hesitating. Harry couldn’t move very far even if he tried, so Zayn slides it down, curling it around his waist, the scratchy material of the coat grazing his flat palm, and he takes a deep breath before pressing his face into the back of Harry’s neck, nose against his skin. And he gets that feeling, the one he’s had since he was seventeen and he first saw Harry. The feeling he’s been searching for since then, for twelve years. 

_Belonging._

‘I just have one thing to say,’ he says quietly. ‘And if you want me to go, I promise I will. I’ll do whatever you want, Harry. Just please let me say this.’

Harry just sobs, biting at the skin of his hand, and Zayn can only take that as a yes. He has to.

‘Secrets,’ Zayn whispers. ‘Secrets of you and me.’

Harry’s breath snags over a choked whine, and he says nothing.

‘The first song we ever listened to together was _Brain Damage_ ,’ Zayn says slowly into the soft, clean skin of Harry’s neck, his eyes squeezed shut. ‘The first time I saw you outside school, we went to Louis’ house and sat in the Wendy house on those shit plastic chairs and smoked, and you were wearing that dumb Hipster Please t-shirt.’

‘ _Zayn_ ,’ Harry breathes, and Zayn just clings tighter.

‘The first film we ever watched together was _Back to the Future_. The first time you met my dad, you called him sir and he laughed about it for like, ten years. The first time you ever came around to my house, you tripped on the step into the kitchen, and your socks skidded on the floor and you knocked that mug off the side.’ His voice is getting higher and less controlled, but he powers through. ‘The first time you held my hand, we were at Anwar’s party and you still had Francesca’s lipstick on your mouth, and I remember sitting there wanting to _die_.’

Harry shudders under his touch, his breath gone quiet.

‘The first time you kissed me, we were in that hammock in your garden, and we’d just had a bottle of wine. It was the day of your last exam, the day before my first one. I got an A* in that exam, Harry.’ He tries to laugh but he can’t, just shivers into Harry’s back and fists at his coat, tears gathering on his eyelashes. ‘The first time I ever saw you, you were carrying your guitar over your shoulder, and your tie was undone, and I was sat in the corridor and – it was the first we ever spoke. All you said was _hello_ , and I – I knew then that I – that I…’ 

He gulps, wincing, his heart shuddering unpleasantly. He can feel the pulse of it against his wet, closed eyelids. He’s never spoken to Harry so honestly. He’s never said any of this aloud and it’s fucking terrifying. He hates that it scares him so much, laying his heart out there, hates that it took this – this decisive all or nothing – to be able to say it. One day, though, he won’t flinch, and he won’t close his eyes. One day he won’t be scared.

‘I knew that I never wanted to be more than three feet away from you, forever. And that you would be the greatest, brightest, best thing in my whole life, and that if I fucked it up I’d… I’d…’ He trails off presses himself harder into Harry, his whole body trembling. ‘And I – I understand if you don’t want to speak to me. My heart’s been fucking mangled ever since you left, and I know now how you’ve felt for – for forever, basically. And I know that I’m probably nothing in comparison to all the people you’ve met in LA. And I know you’re leaving.’ His voice breaks over that word, and he has to pause for breath, to collect himself. ‘But I’d do anything in the world to be something to you again. Anything you want me to be, I don’t care. Just – just please let me be something. Please.’

Harry doesn’t answer for a long time.

‘You hurt me, Zayn,’ he whispers, so quietly Zayn can barely hear him. ‘I thought you – I thought it meant nothing to you. Our last night. And to me it was…’

He trails off, but Zayn doesn’t need to hear it to know what he was about to say.

_Everything._

It hurts so much Zayn has to stop himself from flinching against Harry’s back. Instead, he pulls away slightly to run a gentle finger down Harry’s neck, teasing a loose strand of hair and tucking it behind his ear.

He hasn’t been gentle with Harry for so long. But Harry’s broken and Zayn’s been broken too, and he will never be anything but soft and tender with him for as long as he’s alive. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ Zayn says quietly, ‘that you ever thought you weren’t everything in the world to me. And I’m so sorry for all I’ve done to convince you otherwise. And that I’ve never told you enough. I’ll spend every day forever convincing you if you let me.’

There’s a pause as Harry absorbs that, forehead against the roof of the car, breath shuddering. Zayn’s so cold he can’t feel anything from the knees down, his socks drenched, his arms covered in goosebumps. 

Forever is too much to offer, he realises. Harry can’t believe in Zayn’s forever anymore.

‘Just let me have today,’ Zayn says, a desperate edge to his voice. ‘Just let me have one day, before you go. Just to be around you. Please. That’s all I’m asking. Just one day.’

Harry swallows, still silent.

Twelve years and the rest of forever and all of Zayn’s heart fall down to this.

One day.

Before infinity unfolds and Zayn’s not with Harry and he’ll keep on existing without him and trying, every single day, to be fine with it.

One day. 

‘Okay.’

  
+++

  
****

They sit in silence in the car, and Zayn’s heart feels thin and fragile, welts forming over it like the cut of a heavy plastic bag against cold skin.

He retrieved his shoes and coat, at least, and the car is warm. Those are silver linings and Zayn will cling to them as best he can, because Harry’s driving without much direction, and his hand’s shaking every time he reaches for the gearstick. Zayn doesn’t want to freak him out so he’s trying his hardest to stare straight ahead, hands folded carefully in his lap, but he can tell that Harry can’t stop glancing nervously at him whenever the opportunity to tear his eyes from the road presents itself. 

They opted for the radio instead of Pink Floyd, and Zayn hums along just to fill the silence. Every lull and dip in the songs is filled with reminders of what’s happening, what _will_ happen, and every jarring, vacant advert is the sound of what the rest of Zayn’s life will be like. _Harry’s leaving. Forever. He was crying. Two for one toothpaste on sale on Monday morning…_

‘Ugh,’ Harry says suddenly, reaching with his trembling fingers to turn the radio down. Zayn hears a second of the song before Harry fumbles with the dial and they’re drenched in silence again.

‘No, hey, that’s one of yours, isn’t it?’ Zayn asks, smiling. A few years ago he might have batted Harry’s hand away and turned it up again, but this time he tucks his hands under his thighs and keeps to himself.

Harry stills, arm hovering awkwardly over the gearstick, before he nods slowly and lets his hand fall to his lap. ‘If I Could Fly,’ he says quietly.

‘I love it,’ Zayn says earnestly, smiling. ‘It’s different, but brilliant.’ The corner of Harry’s mouth pulls up, eyes trained forward, but even so a tentative sense of pleasure consumes Zayn. He grins back, fingers flexing under his thighs, and Harry mumbles _thanks_ under his breath. 

And then they’re silent again, except now there’s no music. And that’s…

‘Nice car,’ Zayn says inanely, his voice much too loud in the empty space between them. ‘Didn’t expect you to have a car over here.’

‘It’s Gem’s,’ Harry says distantly. ‘Or, it’s mine. I bought it for her. But it’s hers, really.’

Zayn’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. Harry’s buying people cars now?

‘I take it writing’s going well, then?’ he says as brightly as he can, scratching at the seat beneath his thighs. 

Harry hums noncommittally, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror as he signals left. ‘Had a lot of inspiration,’ he says flatly, offering a weak shrug.

And then his eyes slide to Zayn, holding his gaze briefly. He smiles sadly, lips tucking together, eyebrows puckered, before he swallows and looks away.

Zayn looks out of the window again, a weak despondency lacing his veins like a drug.

The sun is poking through the grey clouds outside the window, bouncing off windows, igniting the wet pavement gold. Zayn bets it feels warm. Inside the car with Harry, it’s suddenly cold.

  
+++

  
****

They end up traipsing up Hampstead Heath, hands in pockets, cheeks bitten red.

Harry’s hair is still tied up and Zayn desperately wants to take it out of its hairband and muss it over his face, cover the scarlet tips of his ears. Harry doesn’t seem too fazed, though. He makes it to the summit before Zayn does and closes his eyes, face turned towards the breeze, fingers twitching in his pockets. He looks so oddly peaceful for a minute, stood there with the wind nipping his cheeks and loose strands of hair fluttering gently around his face. He looks like a painting. He doesn’t look real. The sky overhead only seems to hang there as a backdrop to Harry and it’s like the whole world belongs to him then, as Zayn stands just a bit farther down the hill blinking up at him. All of the air around them belongs to Harry. 

Harry sits down on the grass without looking at Zayn, and half of him wants to complain – if that were Amber he would have snatched her up for fear of her catching a chill – but there’s no room for that, now. He plants himself next to Harry and ignores the damp soaking through his jeans to his boxers, ignores the shiver it sends snapping up his spine, and watches Harry pick at the wet grass, fibres of hair flopping over his forehead, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. All his edges are framed with low sunlight, following the line of his nose and the curve of his chin. Zayn’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his whole life.

‘Bet you miss LA when the weather’s like this, then,’ Zayn tries, smiling gently. ‘Cold, innit?’

Harry looks up, hair tangling with his eyelashes as he gazes out over London. ‘Yeah, I guess. I don’t know, though. Something about the cold. ‘s home.’

 _Why don’t you come back then?_ Zayn feels like asking, shaking his shoulders and climbing into his lap and _begging him._

‘Met anyone nice in LA?’ he asks instead, leaning back on his freezing hands.

Harry glances at him quickly before looking away. ‘Uh, yeah. A few.’

‘Sure there’s loads. You’ve always been great at making friends.’

The small smile returns briefly. ‘Yeah. I’ve got some good friends.’ 

The way he says it – slow, unsure, emphasis on _friends_ – implies he’s made people who aren’t friends, either. It makes Zayn feel a little dizzy, but he ignores it. He made a deal with himself that he’ll be anything to Harry so long as he’s around him. The time for jealousy has long gone, now, even if it simmers and bubbles like putrid poison in the depths of his body, a fiery purple lava that Zayn won’t ever let spill out again.

‘I was seeing someone,’ Harry carries on, and his voice – the fact he’s voluntarily continuing the conversation – startles Zayn. ‘For a while, actually. He’s nice.’

Zayn valiantly ignores the way his heart’s screaming at him. ‘Oh, right?’

‘He played lacrosse, a few years back.’

Zayn nods jerkily, fingers clenching in the grass. Repeated, torturous images of Harry fucking a faceless someone by pretentious scented candlelight in LA, flash fluorescently in Zayn’s mind. Something awful and tragic like Joni Mitchell on Harry’s stereo, his slow, soft, big hands gentle on their waist, lips sweet against their neck. It hurts more than Zayn can bear, a huge fatal Titanic crash behind his ribs, but thinking of the moments after is worse, the way Harry can’t function for a few minutes, dazed and droopy-eyed, a smile playing at his lips. He thinks of someone else pressing their face into Harry’s chest and curling up around him and he has to press his palms to his eyes before he starts sobbing on the heath like a mad man. 

‘He really liked me,’ Harry says, looking at Zayn now, his face unreadable. ‘But I… I don’t know. I liked him back, I suppose. I must have done.’ 

Zayn holds his gaze steadily, or tries to, at least, through the hopeless haze that’s blurring his vision. ‘What happened?’

Harry’s lips twist. ‘I think I just look for things in the wrong places,’ he says, mouth wilting. ‘Or I ... I’m looking for the wrong thing with the right people. I don’t know.’

His nerve seems to crumble then, eyes flickering away, and Zayn nearly grabs for him. 

‘Nah, I get that,’ Zayn nods, trying his best to be reassuring. ‘Sometimes you want something so bad, but they just can’t give that to you. Nothing to do with them.’

Harry looks away, nodding too. He swallows and Zayn watches the movement in the column of his throat. ‘I was… I don’t know. I got a bit of a name for myself, before him. Kind of…’ His ears flush even pinker. ‘Um… with quite a few people.’

Zayn laughs as best he can, although his stomach catapults out of his body and rolls off down the hill towards Highgate. Harry’s silence speaks for everything he feels too awkward to say. _Shagging_ , Zayn wants to stand up and scream, loud enough to tear the sky open. _You’ve been shagging tonnes of other people. Brilliant_. ‘I get it.’

‘Yeah. Girls again, too. The whole thing just wasn’t … good. But he was nice.’ He rips savagely at some grass. ‘Oh well.’

‘Something will come along,’ Zayn says, the words sharp and cutting inside his mouth but managing to be soft once they escape and get swallowed by the air. ‘You’re a catch, H. Bet you there’ll be something soon.’

Harry swallows again. ‘Maybe,’ he says doubtfully. He holds Zayn’s gaze for a moment and then leans back on his hands too, levelling up with Zayn. He pauses. ‘Have you? With… anyone at all?’

Zayn swallows. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t.’

In the silence that follows, the sky feels too big, the air too vast and heavy and pressing down on Zayn’s shoulders.

‘You know, there’s something about you and I,’ Harry begins. He hesitates again for another maddening moment, biting at the inside of his lip like he’s chewing the words over in consideration. ‘We always end up outside.’

You and I. God, Zayn could cry. He’s two seconds from crying. ‘What do you mean?’

Harry shrugs carefully. ‘I don’t know. When we were younger, we were always outside weren’t we? In the garden, the green outside my house, in Lou’s shed. And then later, we just… I don’t know. Sorry. I’ll shut up.’

‘No,’ Zayn says, touching his little finger to Harry’s. He’s not brave enough to cover Harry’s hand with his own, but even that touch has his blood heating up and pulsing, hot and wet, in the rivers down his arm. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

And he does. The sun and the sky and the stars seem different around Harry. Less brutal and scientific and far away. Everything around Harry feels calmer and safer, everything smells like freedom and clarity, everything seems solid and touchable. Maybe it’s because, around Zayn, Harry is always calm and quiet and serious. Around other people he can be loud and boisterous and self-consciously silly, desperate to impress and perform and be liked. But around Zayn, he mellows and relaxes and lets himself breath and be still, and the world curves around him and follows every movement, as it always does. Because it should. It feels like the world is in love with Harry almost as much as Zayn is. 

Zayn realises he’s staring wordlessly at him when Harry withdraws his hand, sliding it along the wet grass and out of Zayn’s grip.

Zayn feels dangerously close to breaking point so sits unnaturally still, unblinking, but then Harry surprises him by saying, ‘Lou told me about the charity.’

‘He did?’ Zayn asks, smiling genuinely for the first time in what feels like hours. It’s so foreign his cheek muscles ache. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s amazing,’ Harry says, smiling back. It doesn’t matter that his smile is small, tentative, barely flitting across his face before chasing itself away. It makes Zayn grin so wide he’s sure Harry can see all his teeth. 

‘I just thought I ought to help,’ Zayn says, shrugging even though he’s still smiling. ‘There’s so many young people out there who feel like I did. Stressed beyond belief, scared they’ll let their families down, unsure whether or not they should stay at uni.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry says with a nod. ‘And you help how?’

‘I go down to the centre twice a week,’ he explains, twisting the wet grass beneath his fingertips. ‘I only have Amber weekends, now, so I have lots of spare time. Kids come in, get to hang out and meet each other, make some mates away from uni. We order in pizza and watch films and chill out, talk about anxiety and depression and homesickness. A group of them formed a band, actually.’ Harry smiles at that, eyebrows lifting, dimple pulling in his cheek. ‘We also do Skype calls and emails with people who don’t go to uni in London. A couple of them asked for a phone call every week, so me and Bahar ring them up and chat, ask how they’re doing. Talk them through any problems they’re having. If I’d have had someone to speak to like this, I would have… I don’t know. Felt better. Been better.’

A frown drifts onto Harry’s face, rooting itself between his eyebrows and spilling out so that his mouth curves down in the corners. ‘Yeah, but I –’ he starts to say, and then he shakes his head and looks away quickly.

‘What?’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Tell me?’

‘I wish you thought you could speak to me,’ Harry says quickly, as though spitting out before he can change his mind. ‘I was always there. Always. I wanted you to talk to me so bad. I always felt so – so guilty that you never thought you could speak to me.’

The honesty of it hits Zayn like a tornado, as though a torrent has come and shoved him from the top of the hill. He blinks at Harry, searching for his voice for longer than he should have to.

‘I get that,’ he says slowly, diplomatically, but his heart is beating to the tune of Harry’s breath and his whole chest aches for him. ‘But sometimes you need to talk to somebody who isn’t… What you were to me. Do you know what I mean?’

Harry nods, biting his lip and crossing his ankles. ‘I suppose.’ And then, as though in slow motion, he glances at Zayn and exhales slowly. Zayn can’t feel his breath but he knows it must be impossibly warm. Everything about Harry has always been warm to Zayn. ‘That was a secret, you know. What I just said.’ He blinks, as though his pause is done to deliberately mount the tension, before saying, ‘Your turn.’

The sky feels thick and the cold oppressive and the grass soaking and the wind aggressive and Zayn stares and tries to breathe but every exhale feels like something inside of him is being crushed, because as close as they are, every inhale is Harry.

‘Okay,’ he says.

  
+++

  
****

It’s dark by the time they’re back in the car, and even though Zayn’s so cold from hours talking on the hill that he’s shaking, he won’t ruin anything by complaining. So he doesn’t say a word.

Maybe he’ll actually get ill as some sort of weird vindication from the universe, and then his lie to work this morning about suddenly catching the flu won’t actually be a lie, after all. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of what Zayn knows will shape out to be a horrific evening, once Harry’s gone.

Harry seems more comfortable now, at least. His spine has lost its rigidity and his jaw is less tight, free of all the warning signs that he might bolt at any moment. Instead of awkward and stiff, he’s now full to the brim of nervous energy as he taps away at the steering wheel, knees bouncing at full speed, fingers reaching to change the radio station every few minutes.

Zayn knows it’s because he’s meeting his dad, and Gemma too, at some fancy restaurant in Mayfair. He told Zayn an hour or so into their secret sharing, eyes bright with anxious anticipation that he wasn’t able to cover up with his shrug and blank delivery. Harry’s damned and cursed and shrugged off his dad for as long as Zayn’s known him, but he can’t hide the shimmering elation that lights up his eyes at the prospect of seeing him again. He’s so desperate to be loved, even by someone who moved halfway across the world and never made much of an effort to return.  
It makes Zayn so unbelievably sad. 

But he couldn’t say so, because time was running out. So he just smiled and went on and on about how brilliant that was, despite his heart sinking devastatingly to wallow, slimy and shrivelled, by his feet. He thought he’d have the _whole_ day, dinner included, to sit with Harry, to soak up the last of his brightness and the small, unsure smiles and the mess of his hair and the nervous fidgeting of his hands, before Harry goes off to LA forever. 

As far as Zayn’s aware, though, Harry hasn’t seen his dad for close to a decade, and that’s far more important than Zayn’s desperation to be around him for as long as possible. 

At least when Harry drives off and they never see each other again, Zayn can climb into bed knowing that he had a few hours with him that were, for once, unloaded. They were hours delicately stuffed with an exchanging of secrets that weren’t secrets at all – news about Amber, about Harry’s songwriting, about their families and work and everything in between. There was no effort to talk about them, about what they can be now, but what did Zayn expect? Some kind of cosmic shift, some rewriting of the past and an impossible shift of the mapped line of the future? Harry wants to move on and Zayn has to let him. He won’t tug at Harry’s sleeve for longer than Harry wants him to.

Even so, when Harry slips out of the car with a nervous, childlike look on his face as he mumbles something about quickly popping into a department store to buy his dad his favourite bottle of cognac, Zayn can’t stop himself from trying, one last time. He does a frantic Google search on his phone, his heart pulsing in his mouth as he opens up the glovebox to find something he can write on. Typically, Harry’s managed to leave his mark in Gemma’s car despite only borrowing it for a weekend – long rizla and excessive packets of gum and a beaten up old journal with _one and only_ scrawled over the spine all spill out into Zayn’s lap like vomit. He yanks out a crumbling AA map and scrawls his message over a double page spread of Cheltenham, twitching to look out of the window every few seconds, beads of sweat glistening over his temples. His hand hasn’t worked so fast since his A-level exams as he frantically fills both pages in tiny, desperate scribbles. And then he tears the pages out and stuffs them into the front of Harry’s journal, panting as he leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. He feels dizzy. His chest is so tight.

His head is aching with how hard he’s praying that this won’t be goodbye.

  
+++

  
****

When Harry clambers back into the car he’s fidgeting, twisting his fingers around his wrist over and over. ‘It broke,’ he says almost petulantly, a weird sort of panic lingering around his mouth. ‘I was just fiddling with it in the queue to pay and the fucking – the strap just snapped right –’

He tugs too hard at the watch and it tumbles – with a surprising lack of grace for something Zayn suspects cost a small fortune – between the central console and Zayn’s chair. Harry exhales a low _fuck_ , eyes wide, and Zayn can feel the nervous energy radiating off him like warmth from a portable heater. Zayn had forgotten, almost, this tenuous quality to Harry, the way emotion engulfs him so viscerally that he has people flocking to look after him. Harry could be dropped anywhere in the world and somebody would offer him their spare bedroom and a bite to eat within the hour. Even now, Zayn leans down before Harry can and twists his fingers under his seat, grabbing for the thin slither of leather and retrieving the watch. But as he’s bent in half, his face and arm obscured from Harry’s view, he clenches the broken watch in his fist and fumbles clumsily at his own wrist.

‘Have mine,’ Zayn says when he sits up, back far too straight, heart filled with an ache that echoes with _goodbye_. Harry’s lips part, eyes lingering on Zayn’s and warming with confusion, but Zayn just shoves his own watch at Harry’s open palm in anticipation of him saying no. ‘Please. Take it.’

‘Your granddad bought you that, Zayn,’ Harry says softly with a small shake of his head, eyebrows puckered, and Zayn feels the certainty of what is to come press at his heart like a heel stamping and squishing a bottle cap into mud.

‘I want you to have it,’ Zayn half begs, reaching for the tips of Harry’s fingers before he can stop himself. He takes in the bony plain of the back of Harry’s palm, his slender fingers, the delicate bones in his wrist, the flimsy skin over his pulse as he loops the watch over it, obscuring what used to be an _I can’t change_ tattoo. He holds his fingers for just a second longer than he has to, savouring it, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s knuckles, and then he lets go. ‘It’s yours,’ he manages to croak, gulping, eyes blurring hotly. ‘As a goodbye.’

  
+++

  
****

When Harry drops Zayn at the tube station he lets Zayn hug him. He tucks his head into Zayn’s shoulder for less than ten seconds and allows Zayn to inhale him, fill his lungs with Harry in the hope that it’ll be enough to sustain him forever. Outside it’s wet and damp and cold, but nothing can feel as cavernous and empty as Zayn as he watches Harry drive away with his broken watch clasped in his fist for what he knows, somehow, is the last time.

Nothing.

  
+++

  
****

Zayn’s heart throbs like a bruise beneath his skin as he waits.

The hotel was criminally expensive and he can hear his bank account wailing as he sits in silence, gripping the duvet hard in tight fists. There’s nothing to do so he decides to shower, pulling his clothes off one by one and dumping them in the corner of the room. He pauses, standing naked and staring at the sad heap of fabric, before fishing out his jumper and pressing it to his face with both hands, breathing it in so hard his lungs burn.

He’d hoped it would smell like Harry. It doesn’t.

  
+++

  
****

He rings Kamal as he’s lying in the bed in a t-shirt and some boxers, eating nuts from the mini bar.

Kamal is secretly his favourite kid from the charity, even though he knows it’s probably wrong to have favourites. Originally from Leicester, Kamal studies Maths at Edinburgh and he’s a Muslim from a big family, like Zayn. They’ll never meet face to face, and Zayn has three other kids who are subscribed to weekly calls, too, but Zayn sees so much of himself in Kamal that it’s hard not to look forward to their weekly, five minute chats as though they’re actually mates.

‘Zayn! All right, mate?’ Kamal chirps as soon as the line connects them. He sounds happy. Zayn smiles as he bites into a cashew.

‘Okay, man, how are you?’

‘Doing good, actually,’ he says, and Zayn can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Going out tonight with some guys from my floor.’

‘Hey, that’s great!’ Zayn chimes, beaming. ‘That’ll be brilliant.’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ He pauses, and then says tentatively, ‘It’s getting better, I think. Slowly.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, mate.’

‘And term’s over soon, anyway. Can’t wait to see my mum, as bad as it sounds.’

Zayn’s mouth twitches at the corner. He quite literally counted the days when he was at uni. ‘Not bad at all. I know the feeling. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’ He roots around in the bag of nuts, licking the salt off his lips. ‘So be careful tonight, yeah? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. No falling out of the club with your knickers on your head.’

‘Don’t be such an old man,’ Kamal laughs, and Zayn laughs too. ‘I’ll be fine, Zayn, don’t worry.’ 

‘Good.’

‘How’re you, anyway? How’s your daughter?’

‘She’s great,’ Zayn says, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I’m actually in the midst of a big romantic gesture right now. So. Who knows how it’ll go.’

‘Oh yeah? Lucky lady!’

Zayn gulps. The broken watch is tied together with a hairband and fixed carefully around Zayn’s small wrist, like some kind of warped friendship bracelet gone wrong that Zayn’s too sad and pathetic to take off. ‘Lucky lad, I hope.’

That’s the thing about coming out. People think it’s just one terrifying leap from atop a towering cliff face, but you have to make the decision to come out every day, over and over, with no telling how people will react. Even now, his heart drums like hummingbird wings, a delicate prickle shivering down his spine.

‘ _Lad_?’ Kamal repeats, like he’s chewing it over. ‘Fair enough, I guess. He’d be a fucking idiot not to have you.’

Zayn’s cheeks burn. ‘Don’t be daft, Kamal.’

‘Nah. You’re the goodest guy ever, Zayn.’

Zayn’s eyes feel strangely wet. He stuffs some cashews into his mouth and closes his eyes. ‘Goodest isn’t a word, you know.’

‘You know what I mean. A good person. _He’s_ the lucky one.’

‘Maybe,’ Zayn hums, but as he hangs up, something new and small inside him whispers that there might be some tiny specks of truth in that, after all.

  
+++

  
****

Midnight slips past. The hotel room goes cold. Zayn’s hands shake so much he breaks a complimentary china teacup and he spends five minutes just staring at the shards of it splayed out on the carpet, a mangled corpse, a crime scene.

When he rings reception to ask someone to come and clean it up, he asks if anyone’s come and shown interest in the spare key card. 

She says no.

  
+++

  
****

It’s 2am and Zayn’s smoking out of the window, curled up on the windowsill with his arm hugging his bare knees. London is so loud outside, so busy and bustling and full of life. It makes Zayn feel very small and unimportant, but he likes it. The world keeps turning. The lights don’t ever go out.

He doesn’t hear the door open.

He only turns around because he can feel his presence in the room, feel the way Harry warps the air and fills space without moving. He closes his eyes before he turns his head, just to savour this last moment of safety, wallow in the dark space in his mind that hasn’t yet received answers, but Harry’s behind his closed eyelids anyway, shining like the fucking sun in all the orange spots that cram together in the black.

He turns and Harry’s stood there, clutching the map in one hand, his face pinched and terrified and mutinous. 

They stare at each other. 

And in this empty, foreign room, full of alien furniture and nothing that has marks of the two of them on it, nothing that Harry has touched and scarred and infected, nothing that belongs to either of them –

Zayn feels like he’s come home.

  
+++

  
****

_I really hope you read this. I don’t have long to write it before you come back so sorry if it doesn’t make any sense. I just can’t let you go without trying, but I don’t want to push you if you don’t want me to, because I feel like all I’ve done for far too long is push you away and pull you back again at all the wrong moments, and I want this moment to be yours. You can choose me, if you want. Just know that I always choose you._

_I’m gonna get a room at the Portobello Hotel. I just Googled it, and the Rolling Stones and George Michael and Tina Turner have all stayed there. Johnny Depp and Kate Moss apparently shared a champagne bath together when they stayed (not that we’ll be doing that, I’m not made of money). It’s not quite the Indra, or Parasido, but it’ll do. I wish I could have taken you to those places. I would tomorrow in a heartbeat._

_If you don’t want to come, I get it. I know it’s so hard. For so long, I couldn’t even fucking stand talking about you, or hearing you mentioned. I couldn’t bring myself to cling to any scraps of hope left, because I was so terrified of what it’d do to me when you never came back. So I get it. I do._

_But if you don’t come, just please read this. This is everything I’ve ever wanted to tell you. I can’t live without knowing that you know me, entirely._

_I don't know if I ever told you about that day when I was younger, when my dad took me and my sisters to Broadstairs. I’m sure I must have told you, in one of our secret for secrets. He went with Doniya to get us ice cream and I was skimming stones in the sea, being all moody, and I told Waliyha to go away, and when I turned around, she had. That was the only time in my life I've ever seen my dad angry with me. He screamed at me, called me selfish because I'd been annoyed that I'd had to watch her, said I’d let him down. And I can remember standing there on the beach, listening to him shout, and my heart just fucking b r e a k i n g._

_And I've lived my whole life hoping to never feel like that again. I don't think you can understand because your mum would never be disappointed in you. Or maybe your dad is too disappointed in you and you stopped caring a while ago. But either way, it killed me. I love them more than I can say. I just want to do right by them. _

_But I've realised now that I’m scared of disappointing myself, too. I’ve always wanted to do everything and be good at everything, and then you came along and I wanted you more than any of that. I wanted you wholly, entirely, I wanted you more than I can even describe in writing. If I could have found a way to shrink you, box you up and fucking swallow you, I would have. I think that's what it was. I didn't just want you; I wanted to be you. You were so magnetic, Harry. So gentle and patient and kind and clever. _

_I was always too much of something, I think. At school I was too clever, too awkward, too silent and broody and timid. And then at uni I was too poor and northern and brown and different. And I smoke too much, and I worry too much, and I care too much. I’ve never known who I am, or how to handle all of this feeling all at once. I’ve never known how to be comfortable in myself. And with you it was easy not to feel like that, because you're the same. When I was really angry with you, a really long time ago, I had this thought that you were a leech. That you took and stole from people who loved you because you need so much to be loved. But I only thought that because you're so overwhelming. There's so much of you and you shine like a fucking lighthouse, and it’s all good. Every part of you._

_I was scared for a long time there was too much bad of me. I was never happy in myself, too worried about doing the right thing and making everyone proud of me. But now I’ve learned how to be happy with who I am, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I can breathe._

_If this is it, I want to say sorry. You wanted me to jump, I know. You wanted me to make grand gestures and throw myself at you and say I love you first and tell you to leave Nick and turn up at your doorstep in the middle of the night and fly out to LA to say sorry and just – fucking stay the night and see the damage. But I never wanted to disappoint myself, I can't, and to not have you would be the most devastating, heartbreaking disappointment. If I ever reached for you the way you did for me, and you pulled away, I think I'd die._

_I'm not strong like you, or my parents. I wish there was some romantic reason, but there isn't. I’m just terrified. I think of it like they wanted me to have the world, and the hugeness of it terrified me so I put one foot in the sea and stood still and watched the rest of it move without me. People like you jump off the biggest cliff and think, at least if I drown it was a fun time. People like me worry about the sand between our toes._

_That's who you are. That's why I loved you. And fuck, Harry, I loved you so much. I really am sorry I never said it. But I’m not scared anymore, because there’s nothing to lose. I just wish I’d told you sooner._

_So this is me, in all my (gory) glory. And I’m learning. I’m trying to teach myself when it’s okay to walk away from things that aren’t making me happy. You don’t always have to know what you’re doing. You don’t always have to choose between yourself and somebody else. I don’t think that choice is ever there, if you’re surrounded by people who love you. That’s what I could never understand._

_So I’m trying. I try so hard to be good, and it doesn't always come naturally, but I'm trying. And I think that's what I'm best at – trying to be good. Better than anything else. I think I found – finally – the thing I can be perfect at. It doesn't scare me, because if I fuck up today I can make up for it by being extra good tomorrow. There's no limit to how good you can be. I think I'm a good friend and I'm a good dad and I'm going to try my best to love someone as much as I loved you, one day. Because, despite everything, the way I loved you was good. It was the best part of me. I hope you think so too._

_Zayn x_

  
+++

  
****

The silence feels stretched and gluey, tacking together seconds whole wads of seconds.

Zayn just stares at him, completely terrified, his palms sweating as they sit limply in his lap. 

Harry’s hair is loose now, as though tugged frantically from his bun. His brow is drawn, his eyes are wild, his mouth open and wet. As always, he fidgets on the spot, free hand twitching, feet turning inwards, and Zayn sits almost unnaturally still, not moving at all. As always. They balance each other out, energy wise. Harry moves and Zayn calmly follows. They fit. 

And even with the tension, Zayn feels relief seep through him, wetting his dry lungs, fanning his burning heart.

 _Fuck, I love you_ , Zayn thinks pathetically, his whole head throbbing with it as Harry just glares back at him, unmoving in the entry way, the map clutched in his hand. He can hear Harry breathing from across the room, shaky and uneven and corroding the air around them. _I love him so much. I still want him so much,_ Zayn’s brain yells, half of him drenched in silent horror as Harry says nothing, and the other half of him basking in relief, his skin settling just from the glow of Harry’s presence.

 _I could walk over and kiss him?_ the elated, glowing part of him suggests, sending an itch through his nervous system. _Imagine kissing him again. Touching his neck. Holding his hand. God… holding his fucking hand._

And the other, louder, confused and terrified part of him, reminds him of some very solid facts. _Harry is moving to LA. Harry does not look particularly happy with you. You had your last kiss with Harry, a long time ago._

_I didn’t know it was our last kiss…_

If he had known. How different he would have made it. He would have kissed him for hours. He would have pressed his thumb to every inch of Harry’s skin, made sure his lips touched every pore on his body. He would have wired Harry into his muscle memory so he’d never have to experience this unfixable agony. 

He’s snapped from this inner turmoil by Harry’s voice, low and gravelly and entirely unmeasured.

‘What the fuck is this?’ Harry croaks, lifting up the torn pages of the map and letting them flap in the stagnant air beside him.

The confused, frantic butterflies in Zayn’s stomach undergo some sort of painful, immediate metamorphosis, evolving into huge wasps that sting him with rejection, over and over and over, releasing the poison of disappointment that he’s so desperately tried not to feel for his entire life direct into his bloodstream. Harry’s read the note, and this is all he has to say. 

And it hits him like a steam train.

_Harry doesn’t want him._

‘Sorry,’ Zayn breathes redundantly, because it’s far too late for apologies now. These words, this anguished look on Harry’s face, will haunt Zayn forever. He’s going to obsess over this conversation for a long time and all he can do is resign himself to it, slumping against the window and allowing tears of shame and rejection to gather against his eyelashes.

What was he expecting, really? Harry’s made himself clear all day, and has done for two years, and Zayn obviously lives with his head in the fucking clouds. 

_He_

_Doesn’t_

_Want_

_Zayn_

Harry takes a stumbling, awkward step forward. ‘Do you,’ he says slowly, still staring darkly at Zayn, the map trembling in his tightly fisted hand, ‘have any fucking idea why I left you? After that night?’

Zayn feels very strongly that if Harry continues he might implode. His damp eyes slip shut, a fully formed tear clinging to the faded purple skin beneath his lower lash line. ‘Harry,’ he mumbles thickly, pleading with him. 

This feels cruel. He doesn’t need Harry to reject him face to face – he could have just not shown up and flown straight back to LA, leaving Zayn with that goodbye outside the tube station as his last memory of them. But then, maybe Zayn deserves this. Maybe Harry needs to do this to let Zayn go, to finally get a turn pushing Zayn away. He’ll let him, if this is what Harry needs to do. He hugs his arms tighter over his knees and takes a deep breath, steeling himself. 

He’ll take it.

And then, Harry rasps, ‘I was scared.’

Zayn wasn’t expecting that. He blinks rapidly as he looks over at him, breathless in the face of Harry’s almost palpable agony. He seems torn between two different courses of action, a desperate hand clinging to his hair as half his body seems to pull towards Zayn and the other half away from him, all blurred like the grey fuzz of bad television reception. 

Harry takes another deep, quaking breath. ‘I have spent two whole years feeling so guilty,’ he says, voice still horribly deep and slow, rumbling with suppressed, shaky rage. ‘You have no idea how awful I felt for running away. I’ll never be able to say sorry enough and explain how much I mean it. I thought I was going to have to grovel to get you to look at me again, one day. I thought you would – you would hate me.’ His voice cracks and Zayn’s body suffers a strange spasm, one leg slipping from the windowsill. Harry lifts the map again, jaw clenching. ‘So don’t you fucking _dare_ write down all this crap like I don’t know how it feels to be scared. I’m fucking _terrified_ , Zayn. I’ve been terrified for twelve years that you don’t want me.’

Zayn just gapes at him. 

‘What, you’re surprised? You think I don't get scared too?’ Harry snaps, voice juddering. He’s got a look in his eye that makes Zayn’s breath thin, his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth set. He looks _angry._ ‘All that shit about how brave I am. I'm fucking scared _all the time_ , Zayn. Because I'm not smart enough, I'm not talented enough, I'm boring. I'm just the same as everyone else – no wait! I'm too weird. I'm too honest, no hang on, I'm too closed off. Why are you just moping around in England, Harry, when all your friends have fucked off and got married and had kids and you're single and alone? No wait – how dare you go to LA! How dare you try and move on with your life! Come back here – but no, don't actually. Just fuck off, but on our terms. Come back when we want you to, and then fuck off again.’ It’s so honest and yet so stuffed full of things unsaid that it feels like it physically slices into Zayn, right beneath his breastbone. Harry takes a deep, calming breath and closes his eyes. ‘All I want is just ... someone. Is that too fucking much to ask? After everything? Just to have someone to go to bed with at the end of the day. I don't want all this bullshit. I can't stand it.’ 

Zayn gulps, the new flesh wound carving itself deeper. ‘You had someone,’ he reminds Harry in a wobbly voice. ‘You had Nick.’

Harry makes a wet sound of frustration and throws the map at him. ‘But I wanted you!’

They both watch as the map flops to the ground by Zayn’s dangling foot, and the following silence hangs between them for a long time. Time seems to ooze slowly, thick and sluggish, and all Zayn can do is try not to let his brain create a soundbite from the last few moments that he will replay, every few minutes, for the rest of his life.

_You had Nick … But I wanted you!_

‘You need to listen now,’ Harry says, pointing at Zayn, who is more than definitely crying – whether out of respite and relief or because of newfound terror, he isn’t sure. ‘I have some stuff to say.’ 

Harry tears his gaze away for the first time and starts pacing about the room, both of his hands in his hair now that they’re free. He only looks back to check that Zayn agrees, and Zayn nods once, swiping a hand under his slick nose to collect the tears and snot that have gathered there. He probably looks a fucking wreck, but it’s nothing compared to the chaotic, confused soreness gushing around his body, threatening to spill out of him in what he knows would be loud, embarrassing sobs.

‘That night. Our last night.’ 

Zayn flinches and he removes himself from the windowsill before the urge to fling himself over it gets too strong. He’s so muddled, so unsure of what’s happening, so he just bends to gather up the map pieces and smooths them gently with trembling fingers. 

‘You said you weren’t going to come out to your parents. And you wouldn’t talk about Zoë. And you wouldn’t say that you loved me back.’

Zayn flinches again, his breath mangled and poisonous in the cave of his throat.

‘I thought I was going to die. I just remember touching and kissing you and thinking _Why don’t you love me?_ over and over again. When you fell asleep I couldn’t stop thinking it, again and again, it drove me mad. I thought it was my fault, all over again.’ His voice shudders dangerously, and Zayn’s whole body aches with its desire to hold him and iron the tortured frown away from his beautiful face. ‘I’ve thought that for almost half my life. Ever since I was sixteen. _Why don’t you love me?_ On a fucking loop in my mind. Not good enough. Never enough for you. That’s all I knew. That’s the – the only person I knew how to be. Not good enough to be loved by you.’

Before he can think about it, before he can so much as blink or swallow or take a single breath, Zayn mumbles, ‘I did.’ It’s very quiet, with his streaming face turned to the carpet. ‘I – I did.’

There’s a moment.

It feels like it ruptures the fabric of the atmosphere.

It’s the first time Zayn’s ever said it aloud.

It’s the first time Harry’s ever heard it.

It’s the first time Zayn truly feels all of the stringy weight he’s been carrying since he was a teenager – far too young to appreciate the burden of his feelings – lift. 

He feels free.

And then Harry exhales in a gust, and says, ‘I know.’

Zayn’s head snaps up.

He’s standing far closer than Zayn imagined he’d be, and now they’re face to face he can smell him, expensive tears and nerves and sweat and still – _still_ – that fucking coconut shampoo. It makes a fresh wave of tears dribble down Zayn’s cheeks.

‘I hate myself for it,’ Harry breathes, eyes flickering between Zayn’s, his eyes intense and dark. He’s very suddenly very close. ‘You’re right, I always wanted you to say it. To shout it at me, to everyone, fucking plaster it on a billboard or something. But I could see it for years, Zayn. I knew it, in everything you did.’ He licks his lips, his gaze unwavering, imploring, and there’s a finally a flicker of warmth in it that makes Zayn’s knees wobble. ‘Nobody’s ever looked at me the way you do.’

Zayn’s heart is fucking _screaming_ at him, his face all weird and bloodless as Harry takes a small step even closer, the toe of his shoe scuffing against the carpet, his eyes never leaving Zayn’s.

‘I wanted to shake you, sometimes’ Harry says quietly. He blinks hard and his throat bobs when he swallows, but when he speaks again, his voice isn’t wobbling anymore. It’s smooth and sure and he doesn’t look away from Zayn, not once. ‘I wanted to scream at you that you have to take a risk if you want something. Someone. I fucking threw myself at you and it was scary and it hurt, but I’d do it all again. I’d do anything for you, Zayn. Since I was sixteen, I’d – I’d do anything.’ His voice cracks and he shakes his head, almost incredulously, as he lets out a wet sort of laugh. Zayn just blinks at him wordlessly. ‘But I’ve thought about it for two years, and I thought about it all throughout dinner with my dad, and I know now. You don’t need to say things for them to be true.’ He licks his lips, as if nervously, and then tries a tentative, tiny smile. ‘I’ve been such an idiot. I let fear and pride and – and fucking _vanity_ take over, especially today. You never gave up on me. You always came back to me, even if you couldn’t stay the night. But I ran away from you for two years and I – I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry, Zayn.’

Zayn actually clutches at his chest like a crazy person, as though blocking his heart from springing from his chest. Harry stares at him, that horrible, serious, intense stare, and takes another step forward.

‘But I just… just this once,’ he goes on, voice low. ‘What you said. Am I too late?’

They’re almost toe-to-toe. ‘What?’ Zayn croaks.

‘You said you – you _loved_ me. In the note.’ His voice breaks again. ‘Zayn. Please.’

Zayn has to resist the urge to put his hands over his ears. He’s so confused. _Is Harry leaving, still?_ Something white hot keeps stamping LEAV-ing, LEAV-ing in molten ink against his ribs, as though branding him. He said as much, has said so all day. It’d be naïve to assume any different. But the way Harry’s looking at him, the way they’re close enough to touch but Harry’s still hesitating, as though waiting for Zayn to make the move, suggest different. And it’s infuriating that he’s not making himself abundantly clear, not reaching for Zayn, because Zayn’s waiting for him. He decided he doesn’t want to push Harry, but Harry’s looking at him like he needs pushing, and everything’s confusing and terrifying but somehow it’s so sweet too, Harry’s reluctance, his inelegance. It makes Zayn’s heart throb painfully as he mops at his own face with one hand, the other still shielding his heart even though he’s already laid it out for Harry’s examination, for the first time ever, and there’s no use trying to hide it now.

This is how it feels to be exposed. Somehow, Zayn doesn’t mind it. Maybe he’d even _like_ the feeling of vulnerability, of relief, so long as he knew that Harry wasn’t going to leave him. 

‘I don’t care if you never say it ... after today.’ Harry steps closer again. His wet, wide-eyed gaze is on him, unwavering, and it’s like it’s boring holes into his actual soul. ‘I just need to know. You loved me. You _loved_ me.’

 _What does he mean, after today?_ Panic spurts like a crimson fountain inside of him, like someone’s kneaded pinprick holes over all his arteries. It sounds like _Tell me you love me today before I’m gone tomorrow._ It sounds like _finality._ It sounds like _goodbye._

‘But you’re leaving,’ Zayn splutters, backing away. ‘And you are. Leaving. You’re leaving. Don’t –’

Harry’s hands finally reach for his face, bracketing his cheeks. His fingers press against his temples, threading with his hair. ‘You loved me,’ Harry says again, soft now. He’s not disagreeing, though. ‘You loved me.’

Zayn’s eyelids tremble. He can feel himself crying, still, in an abstract kind of way, feel the gentle sweep of Harry’s thumb over his cheekbone like he’s watching it from space through a telescope. He can feel Harry staring at him like he’s looking into the heart of a new galaxy, can feel himself disintegrating, everything besides the outward shell of his body collapsing in a nebulae puff, and if Harry leaves him now, after this, he will absolutely never recover.

‘You said I’m overwhelming,’ Harry whispers, thumb still sweeping over Zayn’s cheek. ‘And that you got all the bad parts.’

‘Please don’t quote me,’ Zayn whines breathlessly.

‘Never say that again. You’re the best thing in my life. You’ve been the best thing since I was sixteen.’

‘Harry –’

‘You loved me. Zayn. _You loved me._ ’

Zayn’s eyes map the tense lines of his face, the desperate slope of his eyebrows, his long fingers soft as they cradle Zayn’s face. He lets his eyelids slip shut for just a moment, savouring this. 

_Can you do this?_ He asks himself. _Can you keep it bottled up, again, to save yourself? After everything that’s already been said today – everything you’ve already let slip for him._ Zayn feels like it’s second nature, almost, to pull away. He’s been bottling this feeling for as long as he can remember, but since releasing even a fraction of it onto the map in scratchy biro ink, all the long repressed, desperate love inside of him is frothing at the surface, overflowing. And for the first time ever, he understands all the love songs and dramatic displays of affection and ostentatiously public romantic declarations. Fuck, he wants it all. He wants everything with Harry.

And he’s tired. He’s nearly thirty, and he’s lived a life that’s been crescendo-ing to this very moment. He wants Harry to be happy, and he wants _himself_ to be happy, but he can’t be convinced that letting go is best for either of them anymore. He might be a home without Harry, but the ghosts of him have moved in, live in the attic like Rochester’s wife, haunt Zayn as he makes a pantomime of all the days he lives without him. 

So he lets Harry hold him, and he makes himself meet Harry’s eye, and he feels the heavy weight of it on his tongue, the words moulding themselves inside his mouth and shoving against the backs of teeth. He nearly stops himself, instinctively, but he pushes through it with a waifish smile, and he says, 

‘I’ve been thinking about you for so long. Stupid stuff. About IKEA shopping and Sunday mornings and what kind of pillows we’d have on our bed. If we’d have a dog or a cat. What songs you’d play to wake me up. How I’d make you breakfast in bed and how you’d always warm my cold feet up.’ Harry looks breathless, eyes darting over Zayn’s face and drinking in the way Zayn’s are heating with embarrassment. ‘I’ve thought this stuff since I was too young to even comprehend what it meant. I just wanted it with you. That’s the secret I never gave you, Harry. All those years ago, in your flat, when you told me you were lonely, and I never gave one back.’ Harry’s breath catches loud enough for Zayn to hear, his mouth parting gently, fingernails digging into Zayn’s temples like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. ‘I – I’ve been lonely and happy and sad and everything in between, and all that time I never stopped thinking about you. About this. Not once.’ Harry makes another soft noise again, mouth twitching, and Zayn nearly sobs. ‘And I’m so sorry. For everything. I’ve just been dreaming of all that since I met you. It’s all so huge to me and I – I’ve never known where to start. But I won’t push you anymore, and if you – if you want me – I’m yours.’ His hand is still curved over his heart, and he taps it gently, just like Louis did a year ago. ‘It’s yours.’

Harry swallows, eyes falling shut. He licks his cracked lips again and then presses his weight onto his toes, forehead lightly grazing against Zayn’s.

It’s probably the most intimate thing he’s ever felt in his life.

Zayn’s heart positively explodes.

‘Mine?’ Harry says quietly.

Zayn nods, their noses brushing. ‘Some people don’t get their hearts broken till they’re twenty-six, twenty-seven. Some never have it, ever.’ He can feel Harry’s strangled breath against his mouth, and his body feels like it’s being slowly hotwired and jumpstarted, everything humming and jerking out of a coma and back to life. ‘I used to think they were lucky, because I’ve – I’ve basically been trying to glue mine back together since I was a fucking _kid_. And yours, too.’ Harry laughs, a strange sob of a laugh, his eyes still closed and his hands still on Zayn’s face, and Zayn lets his fingers creep lightly around Harry’s waist. ‘But I’d always go back to his, Harry. I’ll always choose to have my heart broken by you.’

‘I never had a choice,’ Harry mumbles. ‘It’s always been you.’

There’s a pause as they allow that to soak, the two of them just sharing the air between them for the first time in hundreds of days. Harry wriggles just enough that there’s a fraction more space between them despite Zayn’s arms which have looped properly around his waist. Harry’s eyes are still shut, spiky eyelashes drooping beneath knotted, damp strands of hair, and Zayn stares reverently at him, the way his breath tumbles from his pouting lips, his pink nose scrunching as he sniffs. He lifts a shaking hand to brush his fingers tentatively against Harry’s cheek, and it’s warmer than the fucking sun and the centre of the earth and the beat of Zayn’s heart, all wrapped into one.

‘I can help,’ Harry says slowly, that serious crease between his eyebrows that Zayn’s adored for so long making pulp of Zayn’s pulse. His breathing stutters when Zayn traces his thumbnail over the arch of one eyebrow, smoothing the puckered skin between them. ‘I’ll help us find somewhere to start.’

‘You can?’ Zayn says back, fingers trailing over the long slope of his nose.

‘Yep. We’ll start easy.’ Harry gnaws on his lower lip. There’s a pinch of something at the corner of his perfect awful mouth that looks quite a lot like a smile. ‘Three words.’

Harry rubs an encouraging thumb over the fingernail grooves he pressed into Zayn’s temple, but Zayn barely hesitates. ‘I love you,’ he says, and it’s so easy.

After all this time.

It feels as natural as breathing.

_I love you._

_Easy. Easy. Easy._

Harry finally smiles properly, smiles so big the dimples pull in his cheeks, but his eyes stay shut. And when he shakes his head childishly, almost wagging it, Zayn finds himself grinning too.

‘Not those,’ Harry giggles. _Fucking giggles._ ‘I know _that_.’

‘What then?’ Zayn asks, his thumb following the delicate lines of Harry’s mouth.

Harry sighs gently into the fraction of space between them. ‘You know,’ he says, licking his lips again, and Zayn’s head spins. There’s enough hot energy crackling against the delicate lining of Zayn’s heart to charge a solar flare.

Now he’s scared. ‘Okay.’

‘Go on.’

He takes one final deep breath.

Maybe it took twelve years, and maybe it’s so scary that it makes Zayn shake, even when with Harry’s hands cupping his face. It’s not I love you, but maybe it’s a whole lot more. Maybe it’s what they should have said to each other twelve years ago when they were just beginning, but when the past is as twisted and convoluted as theirs, the end is all that matters.

Because in the end, he does it.

‘Please don’t leave,’ he breathes.

Harry blinks slowly, licking his lips. And then – 

He nods.

‘Okay. Yeah. Okay.’

A rush of excitement positively _floods_ Zayn, fills him up from his toes and patches up the wounds around his heart, makes him feel whole again. He feels yes all over his skin, throbbing through his bones, licking up the back of his spine. _Yes_ and _thank fuck_ and _I love you_ , and so he says it again.

‘Stay with me.’

‘Fuck, I will.’

‘Stay with me.’

‘Till the morning?’

‘Yes please. Forever.’

Harry grips him harder. ‘You’ll be here?’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

Zayn’s breath trembles. ‘I’ll be here.’ He presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek. ‘Tomorrow.’ Another to the tip of his nose. ‘The day after.’ His eyelid. ‘The day after.’ His temple. ‘The day after.’ His jaw. ‘Forever, if you want me.’

‘Always.’

Zayn smiles against Harry’s neck. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

He presses his nose to Harry’s cheek, brushes his lips over Harry’s, just enough to feel a flash of fleeting heat before he pulls away. ‘Stay with me,’ he whispers again.

And Harry breathes, and smiles, and nods, and says, ‘Okay.’

Then he draws back.

He breathes.

He opens his eyes.

The world, paused for so long, begins again.

  
****

**_we are who we are_  
Monday, 1st January 2024 ******

  
****

Fireworks boom like canon fire outside the closed window. 

Technically it’s been January 1st for three hours now, but there’s students living a few streets away and they can’t be blamed for wanting to drag on the party. 

In the dark of their bedroom, the only indication that a whole new year has just begun is the sweetness of Harry’s breath, champagne-stained lips inches from Zayn’s own. He’s snoring gently, and Zayn knows all of the various animals on here – the dog and probably all three cats and maybe also the rabbit – are staring at him resentfully, but Zayn loves it. The soundtrack to every night of his life, the reminder that Harry is living and breathing and existing right next to Zayn, sharing the air with him, warming up Zayn’s feet with his own.

There’s another faint crash in the distance, and Zayn lets his eyes flutter shut. In just a few hours Amber will barrel in and muscle her way between them, so he has to savour the time they have for now. With his eyes closed, he trails light fingers across Harry’s cheek, up the line of his nose, across the slope of his forehead. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair and lets himself grin when Harry grunts softly.

Everything in the big, sleeping bedroom is very calm, very still. There's thirsty orange light breaking through a gap in the curtains. Out in the hallway, the big grandfather clock that he and Harry bought at Spitalfields while shopping for the new house is ticking loudly. One of the cats is purring, prodding Zayn's knee with her claws. The faint hum of the central heating buzzes along the floorboards and up the iron posts of the bed. One more dim explosion in the distance. Harry has stopped snoring, is just breathing quietly, and Zayn vaguely wonders whether he's awake.

‘I love you,’ Zayn whispers, letting his hand rest against Harry’s neck, his thumb tucked behind his ear. 

On the very precipice of sleep as he is, he might have imagined Harry inching closer, might have imagined the soft brush of Harry’s mouth against his own, the whisper he feels against his lips. 

Not that it matters. 

There’s always tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for sticking with this if you managed it!
> 
> I've had this Zayn in my head since he left the band - I think there's a lot to be said for somebody who gives parts of themselves up for other people for four years, and I think there's also a lot to be said for how these decisions make someone feel and behave, and how these decisions are received. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed - thank you for everything!


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